


Varying States of Muscular Undress

by gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)



Series: Walls and Windmills [1]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Nudity, Partial Nudity, Scars, Skinny Dipping, Swimming, Teasing, Touching, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4423958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/pseuds/gaslightgallows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Phryne gets some or all of Jack's clothes off, and one time he does it himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sleight of Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cowalyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cowalyn/gifts), [InALessLethalDress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InALessLethalDress/gifts).



> The title of this piece, and consequently the piece itself, come from a very silly conversation on Tumblr. With humble gratitude to InALessLethalDress and cowalyn. Thanks for the whiskey. ;)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their second supper together in "Away With the Fairies", Phryne persuades Jack to make himself a bit more comfortable, while Jack proves himself to be more than a match for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a slow burn to start with. Remember, the title is ' _varying_ states of undress.' ;) Hugs and peppermint-stuffed Oreos to [rivendellrose](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rivendellrose), for helping me solve a knotty motivation problem. ♥

She met the inspector at the door to the dining room. “Jack.” She offered him a friendly hand, and after a moment, he took it. “Good of you to come.”

Jack quirked his eyebrows in reply. “And what puzzle are we solving tonight?” he asked, a bit warily, brushing back the sides of his jacket to slip his hands into his trouser pockets.

Phryne shrugged. “No puzzle.” 

Jack walked slowly to the head of the table, noting the place settings, while Phryne noted with interest the way he was fidgeting with something in his left-hand pocket. _Now what could that be, Jack Robinson..._ “And no candlelight. No chopsticks, either.” 

“There won’t be any chopsticks at this table for quite some time,” said Phryne, not without a faint pang of regret. She seated herself, and after a moment, Jack did the same.

“And how will Mr Lin feel about that?”

“Mr Lin would have quite enough to worry about with his Communist revolutionary fighter bride.” 

“Really?” His face betrayed no surprise and only mild interest. Perhaps the doings of Chinatown were more common knowledge at City South Police Station than Phryne had heretofore been led to believe. Or perhaps Jack was simply being polite. “Pass on my congratulations,” he said, adjusting his soup plate delicately and daring Phryne with his eyes to ask him what he really thought about Lin’s marriage. 

But Phryne was tired of worrying about Lin, and glad that it was now someone else’s job. She returned Jack’s look with one of deep consideration. “Perhaps we could allow ourselves just... one candle,” she suggested. “What do you think?”

The dining room clock ticked away the seconds while Jack mulled over the possibility. “I think I could cope with that,” he said at last.

Phryne took her lighter and carefully lit the center candle in the candelabra. Jack watched her with the same neutral expression he had displayed since he walked through the door. 

And then, rather suddenly, his whole demeanor changed, and his angular face bloomed with a smile that was both admiring and amused. Phryne had only ever seen hints of that smile before, and she was pleasantly astonished at the change it made in him. It drew her attention even more sharply to the shape and mobility of his lips, and she was impressed with a vivid reminder of the unexpected kiss at Café Réplique. 

It had been a startling and remarkable thing, that kiss. It had brought many things to Phryne’s notice, things that she had not been able to devote her time to until after the painting was safely back on the wall of her boudoir. Then, alone in her bed, bare and reveling in the feel of clean, soft sheets on her soap-scoured flesh, she had relived the feel and the taste of Jack’s lips and tongue (for nothing in that kiss had been done by halves), and grieved that there had been so many layers of fine black wool and silk between his hands and her body. His hands were mesmerizing things, never quite still, even when he was calm, and he had most definitely not been calm that evening. There had been strength in those hands, carefully controlled, and a surprising amount of care that almost amounted to tenderness. And she had wondered at the urgency behind it. Surely there had been more humming beneath that kiss than mere concern that she would blow their cover. 

She smiled at her supper guest. “Hungry?”

“Famished.”

Mr. Butler brought in the first course, a delicate cream of asparagus soup. Phryne found her attention caught by the movement of Jack’s hands as he brought the first spoonful to his mouth. He made an expression of appreciation over the soup and then cleared his throat. “There are just one or two lingering points about Miss Lavender’s murder that I’d like to touch on...”

“If you insist.” Phryne tasted her own plate of soup and let the velvety smooth liquid slide over her tongue. “But after that, I am banishing all talk of business from this table for the duration of the evening.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “In that case, I’m sure we can find other things to talk about.”

The few points of contention were examined and finished with the soup. Mr. Butler brought in the fish, proffered the sauce boat, poured the wine, and then withdrew. “I meant to ask you weeks ago, Jack,” said Phryne, changing the topic as promised, “what did you think of Gatsby?”

“Who?” Jack swallowed his mouthful quickly. 

“The book I left in your office by accident. You were rather remiss about returning it, so I thought you must have taken the time to read it.”

“Oh, the American novel. Yes... yes, I read it. It was very... forthright. The prose was a bit more spare than I like, but the characters were well drawn.” He worked away thoughtfully at his last bite of fish; to Phryne’s amusement, he had already finished his portion. “I felt ghastly for everyone, but I can’t say that I liked anyone in that book.”

“In the case of Gatsby, I don’t think liking anyone is the point.” Phryne covered a smile and signaled for Mr. Butler to replenish the inspector’s plate. As at their last meal, and as every other instance where Jack and Phryne had broken bread together in one fashion or another, he ate like a man unsure of when his next meal would be, although his table manners were beyond reproach. “You really were famished. Did you forget to eat lunch _again_?” 

“I must have. I honestly can’t recall.” Jack thanked Mr. Butler with all the fervency of a man who still remembered what it was like to subsist on army rations. “I’m just grateful you didn’t leave any D.H. Lawrence in my office.”

“I’d be happy to loan you my copy of _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ ,” Phryne said, with a smile. “You might learn something.”

“That is hardly the sort of book I would care to waste my brief moments of leisure with,” Jack replied, coughing and reaching for his wine glass. 

Phryne thought about teasing him further, but decided not to. The subject of Jack’s failed marriage had been raised between them only once, with a pained nobility that had caused the inspector to rise several notches in her already considerable estimation and made Phryne decide that pursuing him would not be right... a conclusion she almost _never_ came to, when she was attracted to a male. Besides, reciting particularly steamy passages from one of the more explicit books of the moment would not be appreciated by a man who (she suspected) had been largely celibate for years. But then, he had been behaving in a very... surprising manner towards her, of late. The recitation at the theater, his method of distracting her at the café (and his subsequent reaction to the painting of her en dishabille)... his otherwise uncharacteristic jealousy over Lin. So far, it seemed largely the result of unconscious reactions; Phryne knew men, and how they acted when they were _trying_ to woo a lady, and she suspected that if Jack had been actively trying to attract her... well, she had always had a realistic view of her ability to resist temptation.

His fingers handling the delicate crystal glass recalled to her mind the dim feeling of his hands on her face and on the small of her back. She hadn't intended her invitation to Jack to extend to her bedroom tonight, and she doubted he would accept if she made the offer now... but it was certainly pleasant for Phryne to re-consider the possibility, at least in theory, and to wonder once more what sort of person Jack Robinson was, outside of the police station and the crime scene. “And what sort of books _do_ you care for, Inspector? Besides Shakespeare, of course. And besides the ragged collection of books on toxicology and jurisprudence you keep propped on your office mantel. But I assume those aren't meant for light reading.”

He eyed her for a second or two before responding. “I’m partial to Zane Gray.”

“Really?” Phryne’s eyes began to sparkle. “Is there perchance a frustrated cowboy lurking beneath that proper policeman’s exterior?”

“No more than a few books on numismatics mean that I’m hiding a frustrated pirate under my fedora.”

“You collect coins?”

“I dabble. More in theory than in practice.”

“Do you also ‘dabble’ in theoretical chemistry? Or photography, perhaps?” Phryne waited until Mr. Butler had cleared the remains of the fish course and then leaned her elbows on the shining mahogany. She planted her chin in her hands impishly and grinned at her guest, not the least because she knew that the position would give Jack a fine view of her cleavage, should he choose to indulge in a peep. “You’ve shown a great deal of knowledge about chemical processes during more than one of our cases, and who but a photographer would know the compounds needed to make a cyanotype?”

She watched his eyes instinctively drop to her chest and then drag themselves back to her face, but his expression remained impassive. “My cousin keeps a portrait studio in Fitzroy. She’s more than happy to explain her processing techniques to anyone who asks. Mr. Butler,” he said to the old man, grateful both for the interruption and the fresh plates artfully arranged with medallions of lamb and potatoes à la hollandaise, “you’re a wonder. I don’t suppose I could induce you to leave Miss Fisher’s service and come work for me instead?”

“Some men will do anything for a hot meal,” Phryne quipped, knowing full well that there was no way Jack could afford her indispensable servant anyway. She looked her amusement and thanks at Mr. Butler over her wine glass, which had been refreshed with something expensive and red for the entrée course. “And if you try to steal away my staff, you won’t get any dessert.”

“I’m quite happy where I am, sir, thank you all the same,” said Mr. Butler, playing along genially. “But I’m sure you’re more than welcome to sit a spell with me in the kitchen, if Miss Fisher’s otherwise occupied.” And then Jack rose several notches in Mr. Butler’s esteem, as well, by gravely and politely thanking him and saying he’d be sure to stop by the next time he forgot to eat lunch. Quite a gentleman, Mr. Butler decided, in the best sense of the word. A person needn’t be born into the gentry to be quality, as he’d been in service long enough to know, and the way they treated folk in service was one of the best ways to see what sort of person they really were. He made a note to find out what sort of refreshments the inspector was most partial to, and withdrew from the dining room. 

“So,” Phryne said, savoring the tenderness of the spring lamb while Jack attacked the food mercilessly, “your cousin is a photographer?”

“She is. She started out as the shop’s bookkeeper, but she took over the business during the war, after the original owner was killed at the Somme.”

“And her name?”

Jack shook his head. “Not telling.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I tell you, the first thing you’ll do after I leave is look up the address, and the first thing you’ll do tomorrow is pay her a visit.”

“And is that such a bad thing? Unless you don’t want me to be known to your relations... Or,” Phryne continued, pushing the creamy potatoes about her plate with her fork, “unless your cousin has photographs of you in her shop that you’d rather I didn’t see?”

Jack’s face took on the confused, flustered expression that was one of Phryne’s favorites. “She... did some backstage work for the production of Penzance I was in.” Phryne almost cackled with delight. “I’ve begged, I’ve pleaded, I’ve offered to pay. The photos are still on her studio wall. She says it’s payback for the time I threw paint on her when I was seven.”

“Oh, I like the sound of your photographer cousin,” Phryne laughed. 

Jack rolled his eyes melodramatically, but he chuckled. 

Mr. Butler reappeared. “Shall I serve dessert, Miss Fisher?”

“Yes, the inspector’s relinquished all his designs upon you, Mr. B.”

“Very good,” he smiled, and placed before Jack and Phryne long-stemmed crystal glasses. 

“Venetian ice cream,” Phryne told Jack. “I do hope it satisfies your sweet tooth.”

From the reverent expression on his face after the first mouthful, it apparently very much did.

“That,” said Jack, when his bowl was empty, “was the best meal I’ve had in months, and you, Mr. Butler, are a genius. Why you’re working here and not in some four-star restaurant, I will never understand.” 

“But for which I am entirely grateful.” Phryne raised her wine glass with a little smile. “Here’s to you, Mr. Butler.”

Mr. Butler smiled serenely. “Thank you, Miss, Inspector. Shall I serve tea in the parlour?”

“Uh, that’s all right,” Jack said, glancing at his wrist watch and standing quickly. “It’s getting late—“

“Nonsense, Jack. After a meal like that, you’ll just give yourself indigestion if you rush right home.” Phryne rose and playfully draped herself on Jack’s left shoulder. “And we were having such a delightful conversation. Surely you can stay for a little while longer, at least.” She trailed a finger down the buttons of his waistcoat. Flustered, Jack looked down, just as Phryne had intended; she took her chance and dipped her free hand quickly into his left trouser pocket. Normally she loathed the trend of pleated men’s trousers, but at that moment she sent up thanks to all the sartorial gods for the width of hip and volume of fabric that made picking a man’s pocket so easy, provided one was swift. 

Her fingers closed around a coin. _So that’s what you were fiddling with._ She withdrew her hand in triumph. “Why don’t you come into the parlour and make yourself a little more comfortable?”

The wariness was back. “How comfortable?”

“I wasn’t implying anything improper, Detective Inspector,” Phryne said, with overdone false demureness. 

“...Ah.” Jack twitched his shoulder to free himself and looked at his watch again. “Well, I, uh... I suppose I could stay a bit longer.”

Phryne smiled. “Wonderful! Why don’t you go in and sit down? I’ll be with you in just a moment.” 

He gave her an odd sideways glance, then shrugged and walked across the hall to the parlour, his hands clasped behind his back. 

She examined the coin she had plucked from his pocket. It was a British gold sovereign, emblazoned with the king’s head and stamped with the date and place of minting: Melbourne, nineteen-fourteen. It had the polished, much-handled air of a prized good luck charm. _How interesting... a wartime souvenir?_ Being without pockets in her own trousers, she fell back on a woman’s always-available holding apparatus, and slipped the coin into her brassiere. 

When she entered the parlour, she paused for a moment with her hand on the archway. Jack had removed the jacket of his blue suit and was sitting on the chaise lounge in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, flipping through the latest edition of “Women’s Choice”. Again, Phryne damned the fashion of the day, that decreed that men’s shirts should have sleeves with so much fabric in them that she couldn’t see a hint of the shape of Jack’s arms. She had felt them round her and _knew_ there was a surprising amount of muscle there, but she would have liked to see a bit of them as well. 

But the waistcoat proved to be much more to her tastes. Neatly tailored and just the tiniest bit snug, it showed off a trim chest and waist and accented a set of surprisingly broad shoulders. Phryne stood in the doorway quite happily for some minutes, content for the moment to simply admire. 

“Excuse me, Miss,” said an apologetic Mr. Butler, coming up behind her with the tea tray and spoiling her reverie. 

Jack looked up at the intrusion and stood quickly, setting the magazine down with a little harrumph. “Pity about ‘Miss Greenthumbs,’” he said, referring to the traitor Giovanni Campana’s persona as a writer of gardening tips. “’Her’ advice seems to be quite sound.”

“So you garden as well, Inspector?” Phryne strode over to the sideboard and poured two whiskeys to go along with their tea. She returned and handed Jack a tumbler, and beamed upon her guest. “You really are full of surprises.”

She noted his admiring eyes with pleasure, how they dropped unselfconsciously over the amber liquid, to skim up and down her slender form. “That is a very… interesting jacket,” he said, his eyes lingering over the garment. “If I might take a liberty?”

“Please do,” said Phryne evenly, raising an anticipatory eyebrow. Perhaps the evening was going to go even better than she’d planned.

He accepted her permission and set his whiskey down, then raised very polite hands to examine the ostentatiously fluffy collar of her little satin jacket. "Ostrich? And such a _sensual_ combination of colours, Miss Fisher." His hands descended down the collar, still with perfect propriety, to examine the little jeweled pendants dangling from the feathers. Whether by accident or design, the edges of his palms just managed to graze the skin of her upper chest.

Her breath snagged in her lungs. Jack appeared perfectly calm. 

“What do you think?” Phryne asked. 

A little smile tugged at his lips. “‘I was always a lover of soft-winged things.’”

It sounded like a quotation. “I don’t think I know that one.”

“Victor Hugo.”

“Your taste in reading material grows more varied by the minute.” She dropped onto the end of the chaise lounge and eyed him even more appreciatively. “Do I detect a classical university man in my midst?”

“I’d hoped to be so, as a boy,” said Jack, resuming his seat, “but circumstances conspired against me. I became a student at the University of Life – I left school at sixteen, to help support the family after my father died. But I kept my hand in, buying books with the little pocket money I had and reading and rereading them until they were in tatters. I read at meals and when I was supposed to be sleeping, even copied out pages and pasted them up where I could read them while I worked.”

“Is that how you managed to memorize ‘Antony and Cleopatra’?”

“Amongst other things. ‘My tastes are aristocratic; my actions democratic.’ Hugo again. Picked him up when I was posted in France, to help me learn the language. And reading the same things over and over again gave me a good memory for printed material, which came in very handy after I turned eighteen and could qualify for police examinations.”

He didn’t mention what sort of work he had done as a boy, and the omission was almost painfully obvious. Phryne tucked her feet beneath her and took a sip of her drink. “I won’t ask, you know,” she said, quietly, all traces of play gone. 

“It was honest work. I’m not ashamed of it.”

“I’ve no doubt of that, Jack. But whatever it was, it was clearly the sort of work a man devoted to self-improvement wouldn’t care to reminisce about.”

“Well... that’s true enough.” Jack’s mouth made a peculiar set of movements that was rather like he was rolling about a smile on his tongue and tasting it before he let it emerge onto his face. “Enough of my study habits. Let’s talk about yours. Where did you study stage magic, Miss Fisher?”

Phryne was astonished, and it showed. She hoped how impressed she was with his detecting skills wasn’t as obvious. “How did you know?”

“Your conversation. You’ve been drawing me, getting me to answer leading questions so you can ferret out information about me. It’s a trick that stage magicians use to make their audiences think they can read minds.”

“Perhaps I merely wanted to hear you talk,” Phryne replied, truthfully enough. “Your little performance at the theatre a few weeks ago made rather an impression on me. You have a very lovely voice, Jack, did you know that?” A smug little smile played about his lips. _Oh,_ Phryne thought, _he knows._ “Do you sing?”

“You’re the mind reader, Miss Fisher,” he replied, with exaggerated courtesy. “You tell me.”

He probably did, Phryne decided, reading far more into his amusement than he intended. Or perhaps he knew exactly what he was doing... “To be honest, my ‘mind reading’ skills aren’t that much more impressive than those of a common charlatan.”

“And you are anything but common.”

“Of course!”

“Of course.”

“Besides, I’ve always found it vaguely unsatisfying crossing swords with an opponent who can’t defend themselves.” _And opponents who **can** defend themselves,_ she said to herself, rising from her chair and crossing the small distance between them to sit beside Jack on the low divan, _well, I don’t conduct those fights in my parlor, Inspector Jack Robinson._ “But I’m sure I have some other innocent little tricks to amuse you with.” She pressed her thigh lightly to his to distract his attention and passed her hand over her breast to palm the coin she had purloined from his trouser pocket and secreted in her brassiere. _Oh, damn, it’s fallen out somewhere… but how...?_

“If you were planning to produce a coin out of my ear, Miss Fisher,” Jack coughed, tearing his eyes away from her slim, black-clad leg so cozy against his, “I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.” He dipped his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and produced the missing gold piece, with a cheeky little flourish that left Phryne rather pleasantly speechless. “Your lock-picking skills are first-rate, but your _pick_ -pocketing skills are a trifle rusty.”

“Damn,” she said, with wide-eyed admiration. “How did you know?”

“Your little... diversionary tactics.” Jack’s voice dropped down into a curious husky octave, to the point where Phryne couldn’t tell if she was being lusted over or laughed at. “Painfully obvious, Miss Fisher.”

“May I inquire as to the significance of this coin?” she asked, biting her lip contritely. 

“It was a gift from a boyhood friend. We left Melbourne to go to war together, and thank God, we came back to Melbourne together. We exchanged these coins on the troop ship, on our way out, and I’ve carried it everywhere with me since.” Jack’s long fingers turned the coin over and over, as they had when he had walked in the front door, as they had in the trenches in France. “You’re certainly not the first person to try and lift it from me. But,” he continued, slipping the coin safely back into his waistcoat pocket, “you’re the first person I’ve ever had to be quite so... delicate... about retrieving it from.”

It was on the tip of Phryne’s tongue to tell him to feel free to be less delicate, next time. To _please_ be less delicate, even. Instead, she tipped the rest of her whiskey into her tea and raised the cup in toast. “Well then... by way of apology, I’d be happy to break into your cousin’s photography studio and retrieve those embarrassing photographs.”


	2. Feats of Daring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets invited to a beach picnic with Phryne and her Flower Maidens. (Takes place between "Away With the Fairies" and "Queen of the Flowers".)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by the fact that Phryne didn’t look _nearly_ appreciative enough of her Jack-in-the-bathing-suit in “Dead Man’s Chest,” so I can only assume that she’d already seen it before…

“Right,” Phryne said, looking over the automobiles, “do we have everyone?”

Dot counted off the passengers. “That’s you and me and Jane and Mrs. Stanley in the Hispano, Miss. And then Bert and Cec have Rose and Marie and Kitty in their cab.”

“And the picnic hamper? And all the bathing things?” 

“Safe in the boot.”

“Wonderful!” Phryne set a hat of light summer straw on her head and fished her sunglasses from her handbag. “You’re sure you won’t be partaking of the waters, Dot?”

“Oh no, Miss,” said her companion with a hasty smile, and clutching her collar with her primly gloved hand. “It’s all right. Besides, you’ll need someone to stay dry in case of an emergency.”

Phryne suppressed a smile. “I rather think any impending emergencies are going to happen in the water, rather on dry land.”

“Do you think he’ll come?” asked Jane from the back seat, as Phryne and Dot climbed into the car. “The Inspector, I mean.”

“I’m sure he will, since _you_ invited him specially,” Phryne replied, glancing back at her ward with a grin. “You’ve practically got Jack twisted around your little finger. But,” she added, reluctantly acquiescing to reality, “don’t expect him to be dressed for the water. He’s still on duty, after all.”

Jane just pushed her hat back and grinned, but Aunt Prudence, swathed in layers of light cotton and linen that looked more like a Bedouin tent than anything suited for the seaside, was annoyed, as per usual. “I wish you wouldn’t encourage the Inspector, Phryne,” she scolded. “He’s sensible enough for a policeman, but it’s hardly an appropriate place for him to be accompanying a party of young ladies.”

“Even with you and Dot as chaperones, Aunt P? Now really, what sort of mischief will any of us get up to with you on guard?”

Prudence glared at the back of her niece’s bare neck. “To say nothing of allowing him to buy her presents! That ridiculous contraption you let him give Jane for her birthday, for example.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s a bicycle, not a Piper Cub. Every girl should have one.”

“And he’s been teaching me how to race it,” Jane added, a cheeky glint in her eyes that matched the one behind Phryne’s sunglasses. “I can already ride better than any of the other girls. Inspector Robinson says I should enter my school’s race against the boys from Melrose Grammar next month. He thinks I’ve got a good chance of at least placing.”

Aunt Prudence was aghast. “There! You see? Jane is supposed to be setting an example for those unfortunate young girls, and your inspector is just contributing to her hooliganism!”

“Aunt Prudence, Jack Robinson is a perfectly respectable police officer and a dear friend with frustrated paternal inclinations.” Phryne fired up the car. “If he wants to vent them on Jane, I’m not about to stop him.” She waved back at Bert and Cec. “Let’s go!”

It was only a short drive to the St. Kilda foreshore, made even shorter by Phryne’s dab hand at maneuvering a motorcar, acquired in France during her time as an ambulance driver. Personally, she felt there was no training for driving like trying to keep wounded men alive while pushing a van through mud and trying to dodge German mortar fire. But when it came time to teach Jane to drive, Melbourne would have to do. 

She brought the car round to a spot where her carriage-work would be safe from sun, spray, and over-jolly beach-goers. Bert and Cec deposited the three girls, tipped their caps, and sped off, promising to be back by four o’clock. 

They were a mixed lot, the girls Phryne was attempting to instruct in social graces. ‘Flower Maidens,’ the mayor had christened them; rather scraggly potted plants, Phryne thought. Marie was sullen, dreamy, light-fingered, with a hunger for elegance and romance. Kitty was brash, brassy, overdeveloped for her age, always looking for a lark. Rose, who went to school with Jane, was tall and blonde, a little haughty and aloof. All of them had been hurt in some way, although they had never told Phryne how. She knew. 

“Now, you girls are to mind yourselves today,” said Aunt Prudence sternly, while they staked their claim with blankets and umbrellas on a piece of sand within sight of the pier. “I don’t want to see any of you taking advantage of this ‘mixed bathing’ craze and talking with any young gentlemen.”

Phryne raised an eyebrow at her aunt. Women and men swimming together on the same section of beach had only been legalised in St. Kilda in nineteen-twenty-seven, so there was still something faintly daring about going to the foreshore at all, and Kitty in particular looked especially put-out at having the prohibition reinstated. “Sorry, ladies,” she said, shaking out a blanket briskly. “But I’m afraid she’s right. You’re here to exercise and enjoy the sun, not find boys to flirt with. Right. Into the water with you!”

The girls shed their shoes and wraps and gladly did as they were told. Jane removed her sandals and then sat down. “I’ll wait for the Inspector. He said he’d be here by lunchtime, and it’s almost noon.”

Phryne and Dot exchanged a smile. “In that case,” said Dot, “why don’t you help me get out the lunch things?” 

While they got the food ready, Phryne discarded her own wrap in order to better display her cornflower-blue bathing suit, and flopped down into a canvas-backed lounge chair, keeping one eye on her Flower Maidens cavorting in the surf and the other eye scanning the shore for any sign of a man in a suit, who would certainly stick out like a sore thumb among this crowd. “What do your friends think of the Inspector, Jane?”

“Oh, not much. They teased me about him a little at first. Asked me if you were stepping out with him.” Jane rolled her eyes in dramatic teenaged fashion as she set out the plates. “They think he’s too old and boring and has no sense of humor.”

“You’re a much better judge of character than your friends,” said Phryne dryly. She glanced at her aunt, who was now wearing an enormous cloth hat that she had fished out of her capacious handbag. “What about you, Aunt P? Feel like taking the waters?”

“No, thank you,” said Prudence, more genial now that she was settled into a chair and refreshments were being prepared. “I’ve no intention of swimming in the open ocean. The indoor sea baths are much more my style.” She narrowed her eyes at something over Phryne’s shoulder, and pursed her lips. “There’s a man coming this way, barely dressed. Some... admirer of yours, I’ve no doubt. Well, tell him to be off. There will be no hanky-panky while we have the girls here.”

Phryne snorted and pushed her sunglasses up into her hair, to see who Prudence was castigating her about. Some poor innocent shop-man on his lunch break, probably...

It was a tall man, brown-haired, with admirably long limbs of lean, tanned muscle. He was dressed in a plain black bathing suit, very decorous and proper, unlike the daring young men who favored colored trunks and white singlets to better show off their chests. There was a towel slung over his shoulder, and he moved over the sand in their direction with a graceful, energetic trot. 

For a moment or two, Phryne admired the figure immensely, while regretting her present inability to make his acquaintance. She started tell Prudence that she had no idea who he was... until he raised a hand and waved at her. 

Her eyes went wide. She _knew_ that hand. “Jack!”

He flashed a brief grin that was all the brighter for its rarity. “Miss Fisher!”

The three other sets of eyes under the enormous umbrella all went wide: Dot’s with surprise, Jane’s with delight, and Prudence with affrontery. For her part, Phryne was intrigued. _Very_ intrigued. 

“I didn’t think you’d be coming to swim!” said Jane excitedly, running up to him. “Aren’t you still on duty?”

“Not today, Janey,” he smiled, causing a tiny pain to stab at Phryne’s heart. She’d never yet told Jack about her little sister, never told him why it bothered her when he called her ward by that pet name. Either she would have to tell him, or she would have to deal with the little stab. But Jack’s smile as he tugged at Jane’s braid was a sort of compensation for that. “I called up my Chief Inspector and told him that, as I hadn’t taken a day off in almost two years, I was giving myself a half-holiday.” 

He nodded his greetings at Dot and Mrs. Stanley and then unrolled his towel and spread it out on the sand next to Phryne’s chair. “What about you, Miss Fisher? I see you’re dressed for the water. Will you be joining us? Or am I going to be racing Janey alone?”

Phryne eyed him for a long moment, admiring the well-muscles arms she had always known were hiding beneath his official suits, and now also getting a damned good look at a set of surprisingly muscular legs, all from behind the safe screen of her round sunglasses. She knew perfectly well, or at least suspected, that he had come largely for the chance to spend time with her ward, whom he was dearly fond of, and while flirting with Jack on the beach had its attractions, she was not here to play.

“For heaven’s sake, Phryne,” Prudence broke into her thoughts, “go in the water with them! Goodness knows what sorts of ideas those girls will get in their heads if he goes alone, to say nothing of what all these onlookers will think.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Phryne said, as she and Jack made their way towards the water and Jane raced on ahead to join her friends. “My aunt is still rather scandalised at the whole notion of men and women swimming together.”

“It could always be worse.” They paused just at the edge of the surf to let the water run up over their bare feet. Jack shielded his eyes with his hand and scanned the water, counting the wet heads of the Flower Maidens. “When I was a boy, my father used to bring me to the men’s beach. No bathing suits, in those days.”

Phryne’s lips curled at their corners. “I fail to see how that would be worse.”

Jack, if he’d heard her, as he could hardly fail to do with them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, made no reply. “I tried to get Collins to join me, but he wouldn’t skive off. Muttered something about ‘all those girls’ and ‘Dottie’ and ‘legs’ and turned a remarkable shade of red.”

“That was almost Dot’s exact reaction. I fail to see anything worth being embarrassed about,” Phryne commented, letting her eyes drift down Jack’s black-clad torso to where his thighs emerged from the snug cloth. “They’re only legs, after all.”

Again, Jack made no direct reply. Instead, he put his hands on his hips and looked at her expectantly. “Once more unto the breach, Miss Fisher?”

The water, Phryne thought idiotically, running headlong into it, was _cold_. It was never anything else, even at the height of summer, and they were still barely out of spring. But Jack barely seemed to notice. He took a breath and ducked and dove right in, and the last thing Phryne saw before she followed him were his flexed calves slicing through the green water.

There was a good deal of shrieking and ducking and profligate splashing after that, and the other girls forgot they had ever thought Inspector Robinson devoid of humor. Phryne watched the girls, and Jack, in between playing pranks of her own, and was pleased to see that her trust in her civilized policeman was not misplaced. She wasn’t surprised, of course; to Jack, all four girls were children, even over-enthusiastic Kitty, and he treated them as though they were his own teenaged daughters… or, more realistically, hers, as he immediately turned to her for help when Kitty and Marie began squabbling.

“All right, ladies,” she decided, “if you’ve got that much fight in you, let’s put it to good use. I’ll race you all to the pier!” Phryne launched herself forward and began covering the quarter-mile with a breast stroke she had learned from Lucy Morton, the nineteen-twenty-four Olympic gold medalist. The girls hurried to swim after her, making a lot of fuss and noise. Behind them all, she heard an unfamiliar sound that, through the ruckus, she couldn’t at first identify. 

Jack. Jack was laughing.

“It was neck and neck at the last!” Phryne crowed, as she and the four girls walked back to their picnic spot. 

“We saw!” Dot said excitedly, passing out towels. “Well done, Kitty, you almost beat Miss Fisher!”

“And I would have, too,” the girl said, tugging her purple suit back into order, “if Marie hadn’t grabbed my foot!” 

“Sandwiches, Dot,” said Phryne, seeing the need to forestall yet another argument, “and quickly!”

Dot passed out the refreshments of sandwiches, biscuits, fruit and lemonade, and had unearthed a bottle of Veuve Clicquot that Phryne was very thirsty for, when Jack intercepted the bottle. 

“What d’you say, Miss Fisher?” he said, pushing his damp hair out of his eyes. “Same race?”

“What, you and me?” Phryne bared her teeth in a breathless laugh. “Why not?”

“Phryne…” Aunt Prudence began.

“Put the champagne back on ice, Dot. The Inspector and I will share it after I’ve beaten him.”

More famous last word were perhaps never spoken…

“All right!” she gasped, feeling barely able to manage the last few feet. “I give up.”

“Never thought I’d hear those words from you,” Jack laughed. He caught her by the arm and with a strong kick, brought them both to the safe waters beneath the pier. “Here, catch your breath.”

She put her arms round the wide pillar and hung on dramatically. Jack merely leaned one shoulder against the wood, somehow able to stay both upright and in place. Phryne glared daggers at his smirk and at his gorgeous arms, crossed nonchalantly across his chest. “How did you do that? You swim like a damned naiad!”

“Strictly speaking, Miss Fisher, naiads are female water spirits. They also only inhabit fresh water. I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘oceanid,’ although that also technically refers to female spirits—“

“Jack!”

He grinned, wide and cheekily. “There is a gymnasium in the Policeman’s Club building, you know. Marvelous place. And I come down here after work, as often as I can. And I race.”

“What, swimming competitions?”

“No, cycling ones. Why d’you think I’ve been encouraging Janey to enter her school’s annual race? She’s quite good!”

 _Bicycle racing,_ Phryne mused, remembering the loose-limbed trot Jack had used to cover the sand to their picnic spot, and the hard lines of the muscular calves and thighs that had flashed before her during their sprint to the pier. _Bicycle racing…_ She would have to find out where and when he raced. He need never know she was there, but now she wanted very much to see those lovely legs in action. 

“So you’re a veritable Olympic athlete, Inspector. No wonder I couldn’t beat you.” She pushed her wet bob out of her eyes and laughed. “A pity I couldn’t have been named after a dancing water nymph instead of a courtesan.”

Jack smiled slightly and reached out to brush a wet strand of clinging hair from Phryne’s cheek. To her surprise and her pleasure, his hand lingered on her skin. Something flickered deep in his eyes, something challenging, tempting, and tempted. “‘When you do dance,’” he murmured, holding her gaze, “‘I wish you a wave o’ the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that; move still, still so, and own no other function: each your doing, so singular in each particular, crowns what you are doing in the present deed, that all your acts are queens.’”

For a second or two, Phryne Fisher was actually without words. And by the time she had found words, she was unable to say them, for ‘a wave o’ the sea’ chose that precise moment to gather itself up and push, sending Jack crashing against a piling and thrusting Phryne straight into his arms.

He was more solid than the pier, so much warmer than the water, and the arms that had instinctively grabbed for her as she came at him were slick and hard around her waist. Below the water, their bare thighs touched, sending an electric jolt shooting through both of them. Phryne looked into Jack’s astonished blue eyes and wondered, in the instant before he shoved her away, how they were still alive. Surely a shock like that, so sudden it made her heart lose track of its beats, should have killed them both. His lips were parted and she could just see the tip of his tongue. His eyes dropped to her mouth, his tongue flicked out to lick the salt water from his upper lip…

“Sorry,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t mean…”

“No, no… of course not. I’m going back.”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll join you. In a few minutes.”

Phryne nodded and moved out from under the pier, leaving Jack to collect himself. He didn’t begin moving towards shore until she was well out of the water.

“Are you coming back in the water, Miss?” Jane asked, upon her return.

“No, Jane, I am not.” Without any exaggeration whatsoever, Phryne collapsed into her beach chair. “Fortification, Dot, _please_. Your bicycle trainer,” she continued, as Jack rejoined them, “is also apparently part seal, and he’s quite worn me out.”

Jack’s mouth twisted in such a fashion that Phryne was entirely sure he was refraining from making a very dirty joke, and she wondered what of a hundred different comments he might be thinking of. 

“Oh, Dot,” she sighed, gratefully accepting the glass of champagne, “you are a life-saver.”

“Miss?”

Phryne held up a hand while she absorbed sustenance. “Yes, Jane?”

“Is it all right if Inspector Robinson picks me up and throws me? In the water, I mean. It’s not proper, exactly, but…”

“Well, I’d be far more concerned if it wasn’t in the water. Yes, go on, you two, let him toss you about like a sack of meal if it makes you happy. But just you, Jane.” Jane and Jack returned to the water. Shortly after, Jane’s shrieks of laughter came back up the dunes in their place. Phryne sipped her champagne and lolled her head back, feeling her age. 

“Are you really sure it’s _wise_ to allow Jane to be tossed about and... well, handled in that haphazard fashion?” Phryne looked at her aunt in surprise. This was not the empty worry about proprieties that Prudence usually espoused, but real concern. “After all, Jane has... not been treated well, by men.”

“Aunt Prudence, I promise, you have nothing to worry about.” Phryne smiled, at a great many things. “Jack treats Jane as though she was his own daughter. And you only have to look to see how comfortable she is with him.”

“I have to admit, it is a very sweet thing to see.” Finally, Prudence smiled. “You know, in some ways, Phryne, he reminds me of my own dear father. Oh, how your Grandfather Morgan doted on your mother and me!” She sighed wistfully, remembering. “It really is too bad that a man as fond of children as Inspector Robinson should have none of his own. The fault,” she added, delicately, “as I understand it, is entirely on his side.”

That was news to Phryne, and frankly it was information she could have done without. “Have you met Jack’s wife?”

“I’ve been introduced to Mrs. Robinson at some social functions, yes. A very polite and correct woman, but very guarded, as I suppose a policeman’s wife must be, but not at all pleased when I inquired if she was the wife of your Inspector.” Prudence sighed again, rather dismally, this time. “It’s a very unfortunate business, Phryne. You would do better to stay out of it, before you make a bad situation worse.”

“There’s no need to paint me as the scarlet woman in this affair,” said Phryne, feeling her blood beginning to boil. “The Inspector and his wife were at odds long before I came onto the scene.”

There was a look in her eye that Prudence knew not to trifle with, and Jack and Jane were returning from the water, so she withdraw the topic, saying only, “Very well. But I warned you.”

Jane went straight to Dot and allowed herself to be fussed over and wrapped in a towel. Jack simply threw himself down on his blanket and stretched out on his front, his head pillowed on his folded arms. 

“Feeling your age?” Phryne suggested with a smirk.

He turned his head to her and grinned breathlessly. “Never felt younger.”

“Marvelous stuff, sea-bathing.”

Jack laughed and scrubbed a hand through his wet hair. The combination of smile, fingers, and salt water catching the sunlight all conspired to make Phryne feel very pleasantly unsettled. 

“Oh, I’m almost forgot,” said Prudence, which probably meant that she had not forgotten for a fraction of a second, but had been waiting for the opportune moment to spring a surprise. “My son Guy is engaged to be married!”

“Congratulations, Mrs. Stanley!” said Dot promptly. 

Phryne stared at her aunt in dumb shock. “Guy? Getting married? I might have to start going to church, because clearly the world is ending. Who’s the unfortunate girl?”

“Isabella Sedgwick.”

“Oh yes! I remember her now. At a party just before I left London.” The epitome of the Bright Young Thing and go-to-the-devil excess, sweet and blonde and careless, and as far as Phryne had been able to tell, nothing in her head except cocktail vapor and expensive perfume. “I do recall Guy seeming rather smitten.” She slid Jack a sidelong glance that told him precisely what he thought of Isabella Sedgwick. “When’s the wedding?”

“They’re planning for mid-February.”

“Valentine’s Day? How nauseating.”

“But I have offered to host the engagement party here,” Aunt Prudence continued, ignoring Phryne’s base slander against romance. “In December. The week before your birthday, Phryne.”

“Fabulous! We’ll have a month of Sundays, then. Well, good luck to them, I suppose.” Phryne sipped her champagne with supreme nonchalance. “Thought I can’t imagine marriage will settle Guy any.”

“You might be surprised. If even my wayward playboy of a son can get it into his head to marry,” said Prudence tartly, “then perhaps you should consider it.” 

“I don’t think so, Aunt P. Between my work as a private detective and this sorry excuse for a school of social graces, I’ve barely got time for a nightcap before bed, let alone time for a husband!”

She distinctly heard Jack stifle an impolite snort. 

As it turned out, that evening she _did_ have time for a nightcap or two, after the other girls had been dispatched home and Jane was upstairs asleep, tired but happy, the enormous conch shell Jack had found perched in a place of honor on her dressing table. Downstairs, Phryne curled up in the window seat, sipping martinis, with the Inspector beside her. “Thank you for joining us today, Jack. It meant a great deal to Jane.”

There was exhaustion in his smile, but he looked so relaxed with his hair tousled and tumbling over his forehead that Phryne had to restrain herself from getting up for the sole purpose of climbing into his lap. It had been a very thrilling thing to be held in his arms, to feel his thighs against hers for that split second before they had both pulled away, and the only thing that had stopped her from kissing him senseless was the very palpable realization that he both wanted her to kiss him, and also didn’t want her to. And if there were reasons for him not wanting to kiss her, Phryne needed to know. “Aunt Prudence… mentioned that she had seen Mrs. Robinson at a social function of some sort last week. It seems she’s back in town?”

Jack’s smile faded. He tossed back the rest of his drink with an alacrity that worried her. “Yes, I’d heard she was visiting her father. Family business, I’m guessing.”

That he didn’t know what his own wife was doing spoke volumes. “Jack…” 

“It’s all going to hell, Phryne.”

His eyes were so blue, guarded and forlorn and deeply lonely. If she offered him her bed now, after what had passed between them under the pier, there was little doubt in Phryne’s mind that he would accept, out of a sheer need for physical comfort. But what of afterward? What of tomorrow morning? And the day after? She laid a light hand on his knee, and took a chance of a different kind. “I know what it’s like to be alone, adrift in the world with no one to turn to. You don’t need to feel that way.” She smiled what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “Me, Jane, Dot, even Mr. Butler. We’re all here to welcome you, whenever you need us.”

She saw the tears gathering, but he blinked them away before they could fall. “I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Fisher,” he said, toasting her with his empty glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack’s Shakespeare quote of the day is from _The Winter’s Tale_.
> 
> Information regarding St. Kilda Beach courtesy of [The St Kilda Historical Society](http://www.stkildahistory.org.au/). This benighted Yankee thanks you.


	3. A Leap of Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their plunge from the pier in "Dead Man's Chest," Jack has to dry himself off in Phryne's guest room.

“I do have my own room here, you know,” Jack groused under his breath, peeling himself out of his sodden trench coat and dropped down onto the chaise to deal with his shoes. “I don’t see why I have to dry off in yours.”

“Perhaps I have nefarious designs upon your person,” replied Phryne, none too thrilled herself to have every stitch of clothing stubbornly clinging to her skin. She chucked her soaking wet beret onto the dressing table, next to Jack’s poor bedraggled fedora, and eased her black silk jacket from her arms, inch by inch. “Or perhaps it’s because mine is the only guest room with an electric fireplace, without which you’ll have to spend a great deal of time and noise sneaking coal up from the scullery to build yourself a fire to dry your clothes, and probably wake everyone in the house.” She hauled her limp crepe blouse off over her head and shimmied uncomfortably out of her trousers. Voluminous when dry, the drop from the Queenscliff pier into the ocean had turned them into a tangle of irritable black fabric.

“I could just as easily go back to my room and let my things air-dry—” Jack’s litany of complaints came to a grinding halt. “Miss Fisher.”

“Hmm?” Phryne dropped her brassiere over the footboard of her bed and unclipped her garters, intending to sit down on the bed to remove her stockings. She looked up to find Jack staring at her dumbly. 

“Were you…” His voice dropped several octaves as he struggled to look anywhere but at her bare torso. “I thought you were joking about the nefarious designs.”

Rather belatedly, it occurred to Phryne that in her irritated haste to rid herself of her confining wet clothing, she had for once neglected to take his reaction into account. Jack was, for all their close friendship and his insistence upon being someone who was not easily unmanned by the sight of a little bare flesh, still a man, and one whom she knew for a fact had some sort of feeling for her. “Jack,” she sighed, bending to pull a clingy stocking from her leg. The act of her bending down caused her companion’s next protest to strangle in his throat, an interesting sound which she pretended to ignore. “It’s late. Or early.” What time _was_ it? “You were married for nearly twenty years, I’m sure there’s nothing here you haven’t seen before.”

He didn’t answer. Or move. Or even appear to be breathing, for that matter. “Fine, keep staring at the floor or the ceiling. Just let me finish and slip on my dressing gown.”

“Perhaps… I should take the dressing gown. I can leave my clothes here. Or take them with me. That might be better—“

“If you leave them here, you’ll just have to come back in the morning, and wouldn’t that be a sight for Mrs. McNaster and Aunt Prudence, to see you sneaking along to my room in the wee hours before dawn. And if you take them back with you, you’ll descend to breakfast in damp flannel smelling of seawater and probably be banished to the servants’ quarters for the remainder of your visit. Which would you prefer?”

“You’re assuming I didn’t bring clothes to change into.”

Phryne took a moment out of fighting with her remaining stocking to roll her eyes at the damp mussed top of his bowed head. “Jack. I’m assuming because I know you didn’t. All you brought was an extra shirt and a change of under things, both of which you’ve already worn. At least this way, if you stay here, your things can dry more quickly _and_ air out properly, and then Mr. Butler can press your suit before breakfast, and all will be well.”

“…Was that a shot in the dark? Or did you have Mr. Butler rummage through my things yesterday?”

“You arrived here precisely three hours after I telephoned you, and after you so primly refused to dally with the speed limit, so the only clothing you could have brought was the change of linen you keep in your office. You didn’t even stop to pick up a pair of pajamas. And between training Kip and keeping this benighted household in order, I doubt Mr. Butler’s had time to attend to your small clothes.” Phryne draped her stockings and knickers next to her brassiere and grabbed her black satin dressing down from the wardrobe. “There, all safely covered.”

It was still a minute or two before Jack consented to look up. “So what am I supposed to do? Just leave all of my clothes here and creep down the hall naked to my bedroom?”

“Personally, I wouldn’t object to that, but Aunt Prudence and the McNasters might.” She switched on the electric fire that resided awkwardly in the antique grate and set a fire screen before it that could accommodate their wet things, and arranged her clothes on it. Then she went and perched one buttock delicately on the high back of the chaise lounge, and at last, succumbed to an urge to run her fingers lightly through Jack’s tousled hair. He froze. “I do have extra pillows and blankets, you know,” she said, in a gentle low voice entirely devoid of seduction. “You can sleep here. It’ll be easier… and I promise, even if I _did_ have any nefarious intentions towards you, I won’t be acting on them tonight.”

Despite all of her flippant logic, there was truthfully nothing stopping him from leaving. He was, as he liked to point out, a grown man, and a veteran of many cases that must have left him in far more uncomfortable situations than a simple drenching. If Jack wanted to leave her room, than he would leave. Therefore, Phryne could only deduce that he wanted to be there. It was very promising. 

Her fingers flexing in Jack’s hair drew forth a curious little rumble, but she wasn’t sure if it was pleasure or disappointment. She would have liked to hear it again, but he moved away from her hand before she got the chance. “Besides,” Phryne continued, letting her fingers fall on his shoulder, “I got you into this mess. The least I can do is help you get out of it.”

He glanced up at her through eyelashes that were surprisingly pale, in contrast with his rich brown hair. “I…” He cleared his throat. “I take it you’re referring to something other than spending the night in your room.”

“Well, as I’ve just demonstrated, wet clothes are awkward to remove by one’s self,” she said. In one smooth motion, Phryne rose from her perch and settled herself snugly between Jack and the back of the lounge, and took possession of his ruined tie. “It was very ungallant of you, to leave me to deal with mine alone, but I suppose I can overlook it this _once_ …” She looked up with a smirk and a jest about next time, but the words died on her lips. His eyes were dark and, beneath their careful reserve, a little wary, a little longing. She was reminded of the night of Guy and Isabella’s engagement, that horrible night that had begun so promisingly, with her attempt to turn her perfectly disguised policeman into a perfect semblance of a Roman soldier. He had looked at her the same way, like a man confronted with the greatest passion of his life, and convinced that it would be the end of him. If Phryne had had her way, she would have showed him the truth of one conviction, and the falsehood of the other. If their stars had been aligned, it would have been a very long time before she and Jack had returned to that party... “No gaudy nights here, I’m afraid,” she said regretfully, working her fingers into the sodden silk knotted round his throat. “I hope you weren’t _too_ fond of this tie.”

“It was old,” said Jack gruffly. “I have others.”

At last, the wet silk yielded to her insistent fingers, and she drew the blue and gray fabric away from Jack’s neck and dropped it to the floor. She permitted herself the luxury, which Jack did not object to, of undoing his collar, for the sheer pleasure of seeing the strong curve of his throat rise from the white cloth, and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed nervously. 

Phryne stood up and, as though in a trance, Jack stood with her. She always managed to forget that he was the taller of the two, even without his shoes on, as she was so often wearing heels in his presence. Now, barefooted and bare beneath her dressing down, Phryne reached up and pushed the wet suit jacket from his shoulders. The action momentarily pinned his arms to his sides, causing the breath to snag in his throat. He looked down at her, startled, ended up looking further down than he’d intended, caught a glimpse of her bosom under her not-very-securely sashed gown, and then snapped his eyes back up to the ceiling, all in the space of a second.

It took all of Phryne’s willpower not to giggle at his weakening restraint, and all of _her_ restraint not to stretch up on the tips of her toes to lick the taut muscles of his neck. Instead, she pressed her lips together against all possible teasing, and simply helped him to ease the clinging flannel the rest of the way down his arms. He made no protest, and stood still while Phryne unbuttoned the rest of his shirt, which was now nearly transparent, but stepped back with a warning eye to deal with his cuffs and braces himself. 

“You see?” she said, with an encouraging smile, that was directed a bit more to his undershirt and his bare arms and shoulders than to his face. “Nothing improper at all. That’s nothing I haven’t seen on any public beach.”

“And that’s as far as you’re getting.” Jack reached for the lamp on the tall bureau beside the window. 

“Jack, for God’s sake, after all the men I’ve seen in my life—”

“I’m not ‘all your men’, Miss Fisher,” he said pointedly. “Lights off.”

 _That may be, Jack Robinson,_ Phryne thought, with some petulance, as he plunged them into near-darkness, _but it’s certainly not for lack of trying, on my part._ She felt her way back to her bed by touch and plopped down on the mattress. The screen before the fire blocked most of its glow, and the only light in the room now came from the faint white moon outside the window, and Jack had moved purposefully out of its path, so Phryne had only sound and her imagination to rely on. 

The dull slap of his wet trousers hitting his feet, the slight suction of damp flannel being tugged from lean, hard legs (she had seen him at a bicycle race, a week or two before, though he didn’t know it, and the sight of those calves pumping the pedals as he sped towards the finish line had tormented her with delightful dreams for days). The sweep of his singlet being pulled over his head, the unmistakable low grunt of relief when chilly damp underpants were finally removed. 

Her lips curved into a smile in the darkness. “Feel better?”

“Immeasurably. Can you pass me a blanket or something?”

“You wanted my dressing gown before. Or would it be a bit short for you?”

She could almost see his tilted head and his glare, half annoyed, half amused, and so desperately fond that it made her heart do things it hadn’t done since she was a schoolgirl. “Not my style. A blanket, please, Miss Fisher.”

Phryne grabbed the light cotton coverlet from the foot of the bed and chucked it at his voice. When he emerged from the shadows into the dim yellow firelight that peeked over the screen, she saw that he had wrapped the blanket round himself like a Roman senator’s toga, completely covering everything that might be of interest to her. “I hope Mr. Butler won’t be too shocked to find me here, when he comes for the clothing,” he commented, awkwardly draping his suit and shirt among her silky lingerie so that they could dry.

“I’m sure he won’t be. He’s found far stranger things in my bedroom.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “And on that note, I am going to bed. As should you.”

“Of course.” She kicked her heels for a few seconds, until Jack had arranged himself as comfortably as he could on the chaise lounge. “Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?” she said innocently. 

Jack hesitated, and for a moment she thought her waiting might be over… but he only turned his head away, to face the window, this time. “Good night, Miss Fisher.”

Phryne sighed. She shed her dressing gown, letting it pool to the floor unheeded, and slipped beneath the light summer covers of her bed. She felt… strangely bereft, and despite the presence of another warm body in her room, uncomfortably lonely. 

Eventually, she slept. Not for long, because when she opened her eyes again, it was still dark, and the moon still shone through the window, but something had disturbed her. She frowned and tried to focus; there was a figure standing in the window. All she could make out was his outline, but he was tall and solid and nude, with tousled wavy hair that shone pale and silvery, and he was simply standing there, looking out at the ocean and the moon and the stars.

His silhouette in the moonlight was exquisite, and the waning white light around him almost seemed to make him glow. Drowsy as she was, Phryne could almost believe, tracing the hard lines of shoulder and back and buttocks with a proud, possessive eye, that he was a statue of some Greek hero, a beautiful man of marble that had been granted the breath of life in order to guard a beloved courtesan. 

_Someone’s beloved courtesan, at any rate,_ Phryne thought, wistfully, coming to her senses. _But not his. Not his…_

She had taken it upon herself to become reacquainted with Victor Hugo, after Jack had admitting being partial to him. Now, watching the outline of Jack’s naked figure in the window and his shadow on the wall, she was reminded of something she had read in Hugo, not all that long ago. Rising carefully from her bed, and taking the light blanket with her, Phryne crept to the window on silent feet. She lifted the blanket from the chaise lounge, and gently so as not to startle him, she draped it around Jack’s shoulders, so that he would not feel that she was taking too great a liberty. “‘It seemed to be a necessary ritual,’” she murmured softly, leaning against his arm, “‘that he should prepare himself for sleep by meditating under the solemnity of the night sky...’” 

Jack exhaled a low breath, not quite a moan, not quite a sigh. “‘A mysterious transaction between the infinity of the soul and the infinity of the universe,’” he returned, finishing the quotation in a voice so husky that Phryne wondered if he had been crying. “It’ll be dawn in an hour or so. We should both go back to bed.”

“Soon, Jack.” She maneuvered her head and shoulders under his arm, all without dislodging the blanket that protected his modesty. More than wanting to see him, more than wanting him, Phryne wished he trusted her enough to do away with that one barrier of propriety. She understood the need for shields, for walls… but why should he still need to wall himself off from her? 

As though reading her thoughts, Jack’s arm tightened round her. “Soon, then.”


	4. Appropriate Intimacies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After “Murder Under the Mistletoe”, Jack comes down with a bit of a chill and has to be warmed before Phryne’s bedroom fire.

The Jamieson police had battled their way through the storm and up the icy roads to take possession of Nicholas Mortimer and to remove the bodies of his victims to the morgue, but they ordered, on no uncertain terms, that the remaining guests of the chalet stay exactly where they were, and to not even _think_ about leaving until the storm, which was reasserting itself, had passed and the roads were deemed suitable for traveling. No one was happy with the order, but no one had the energy to disobey it, either. Particularly not Aunt Prudence, who had developed a ferocious cold after her ducking in the bird bath.

Phryne leaned against the wall outside her aunt’s bedroom door. “Is she going to be all right?” she asked, when the doctor finally emerged. 

“Give it a day or two,” Mac diagnosed. She rubbed her forehead tiredly. “She’s only mildly ill, but still very badly frightened.”

“And trying to cover it up by acting like an imperious old dragon.” Phryne looked her friend over. “You’re still not fighting fit yet, either.”

“Getting clobbered over the head and then lying unconscious in the snow for an hour will do that to a body.”

“I’m guessing you’ll pass on the nightcap, then.”

“Unless it’s the kind you wear to bed, then yes, I will pass.”

Phryne pulled Mac into a tight hug. “Get some sleep,” she said.

“You too,” Mac ordered. “I know you, Phryne. I’ve seen cases like this keep you up for days.”

“Are you telling me to drink myself to sleep, Dr. MacMillan?” Phryne asked, raising an impish eyebrow.

Mac refused to fall for her oldest friend’s charms. “I am ordering you to have a hot bath, a stiff drink, and a good night’s sleep.” She glanced around and then lowered her voice. “I’d even order you to have a man, if I thought there was one in the offing. You could use the distraction.”

Phryne replied with rueful little grin. “Not tonight, I’m afraid.” She squeezed Mac’s shoulder and then saw her to her bedroom, hoping that nothing would keep Mac from getting the sleep she needed. 

Which was why, she supposed later, it was her door rather than Mac’s that Jack chose to tap on in the middle of the night. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Fisher,” he said, his low warm tones curiously subdued. “You wouldn’t happen to have a bottle of aspirin handy, would you?”

Phryne finished tying her dressing gown. “I’m sure I do,” she said, casting a curious glance over her friend. He had taken off his rather sweet jumper and his tie, and stood shivering in the corridor as though he regretted that decision. Well, it was chilly, away from the bedroom fires. “One does get the occasional hangover, after all. What’s wrong? Headache?” She reached out to steady the candle, which was shaking slightly in Jack’s hand. But when she gripped his wrist, and felt his slick skin and racing pulse, she knew it was more than a headache.

“Jack, you’re not well.”

“It’s nothing, just a chill…” But when his protest was cut short by a stifled round of coughing, Phryne simply tugged him into her room and shut the door. “This all seems rather familiar,” said Jack wryly. “Although I do actually have a fire in my room, this time.”

“That may be, but my room’s closer to the bathroom.” Her mind was already cataloging the towels and blankets in the cupboards. The chalet had been designed as a guest house, and the guests were expected to be largely self-sufficient, so there was a hob by the fire and a set of tea things on a shelf.

Jack stood waiting for her next move. “Trying to get me out of my trousers again, Miss Fisher?” he prompted. 

Phryne was fully prepared to glare at him, but then two things happened: one, she realized he had a point, and two, she saw that Jack’s grin was tinged with very visible discomfort and exhaustion. “I’ll settle for you taking your shoes and shirt off,” she said, ushering him towards the armchair in front of her fire. 

“Why the shirt, exactly?”

“So you can be _comfortable_ , Jack. It’s half-past eleven at night and you haven’t even bothered to change into pajamas yet! I hope you remembered to bring pajamas, this trip?” She raised an eyebrow. Jack, who had dropped gratefully into the chair and was now wrestling with his shoes, grunted a negative. “I really can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

“I’m sorry to be such a disappointing house-guest. But given that it’s you, I suppose I should have expected to be out in all weather, stressed beyond belief, and slugged on the back of the head at least once.” 

“Never a dull moment,” Phryne agreed with a little smile. It faded when she saw how done in he looked. “Do you want help?”

His face was all angles and warm colors in the glow of the firelight, but it was only on the surface. Beneath the light, he looked pale and tired. “I suppose so,” he conceded. 

Phryne sat on the arm of the chair and gently unbuttoned his shirt. “This is a bit like Queenscliff,” she said, agreeing with his earlier statement. “Although summer feels like such a long time ago.”

“A lot’s happened since January,” Jack said huskily. 

She tried not to put too much stock in the tone of his voice. She could hear his breath rasping slightly in his lungs. Aspirin and fluids were what he needed now. Hot tea and warm blankets. It had been a long time since Phryne had needed to call on her rusty nursing skills, but somehow caring for Jack in this way didn’t feel like an imposition. 

“Did I wake you?” he asked. 

“No. I couldn’t sleep.” She eased the cotton shirt away from his skin. It was cold and clammy. “I hope you brought another of these,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Still, if you’re sweating, that’s a good sign. Means your fever isn’t too severe. But the singlet should come off as well.”

Jack nodded. His eyelids drooped slightly, so that his eyes were hidden, along with whatever expression was in them. He rested for a few seconds and then leaned forward to pull the sleeveless shirt over his head, then wordlessly handed her the garment, without looking at her.

Phryne took the dress shirt and singlet and went to find a clothes hanger in the big oaken armoire. The last time she had teased Jack into taking his shirt off in front of her, the air between them had been charged and electric. She’d had some hope, in Queenscliff, of inveigling her newly-divorced police inspector into bed with her. It hadn’t happened, of course, but she had stood beside him in the window of her bedroom, both of them entirely unclothed but for the blankets protecting their modesty, and watched the play of the moon and stars on the ocean. It was a different kind of intimacy, one that she would have felt nervous about sharing with any other man. But it seemed entirely appropriate with Jack.

Now, though… 

Now she knew how much he cared for her, and how much that scared him. How much he wanted her. How far he was willing to go, to protect not only her life, but the lives of the rest of the odd little family she’d created. And she suspected he had learned the same things about her, as well. 

She slipped Jack’s shirt onto the hanger and then hung it outside the door, so that it could air. When she turned back, Jack was standing bare-chested before the fire, rubbing his hands slowly up and down his arms, trying to get warm. The low yellow light played softly on the hard, lean muscles of his arms and chest, and in the back of Phryne’s mind, she couldn’t help comparing this vision to the one she had seen in the moonlight in Queenscliff. Fire and ice, sunlight and moonlight. 

_…I sound like a lovesick schoolgirl._

She pulled a thick quilt from the chest at the foot of the bed. It was a little the worse for its age, but still heavy and warm. “Here,” she said quietly, swirling the patchwork around his beautiful broad shoulders, like a raggedy cape. The motion brought her into the circle of his arms, and as her hands drew the blanket forward over his chest, his hands came to rest almost peacefully on the soft curves of her hips.

“I always forget how tall you are,” she murmured, as she stood gazing thoughtfully at his chin. The skin of his chest was warm against her palms – a little too warm, but firm and alive. 

“Funny,” Jack replied, dipping his head so that he could look her in the eye, “you seem the same height to me.” He cupped her cheek in his hand, tipping her chin up to see her face more clearly, and his thumb was a breath away from her lips. 

_Kiss me, Jack Robinson, for the love of all that is good and just in this world, kiss me now._

He turned away with a sudden sharp jerk, coughing violently. 

Phryne sighed and nudged him into the armchair. _Tonight is definitely not the night._

Thankfully, for all her natural and cultivated hopelessness at cookery, she was actually capable of boiling water to make a passable pot of tea. Judging by the eagerness with which Jack reached for the cup and the look of relief on his face as the first mouthful went down his throat, it could have been nothing but hot water flavored with the mere memory of tea for all that he cared. Phryne gave him his aspirin and then folded her arms over the wing of the chair. “You should try and sleep.”

Jack set his cup down on the floor and let out a huff. “I can’t seem to get my mind to settle.”

She stroked the hair from his hot forehead. Despite him having undressed in her presence several times now, this simple act was somehow one of the most intimate things he had ever allowed her to do. On reflection, intimacy might very well be what was keeping Jack from being able to relax. “I could read to you, if you like. There are a few books in here that won’t offend your tender sensibilities.”

Jack’s snort of laughter turned into a weak cough. “I’d like that,” he said, when he could speak again. “Thank you, Miss Fisher.” 

His hand lingered in hers as she rose and went to the bookshelf. 

“I think we’ll be avoiding Wordsworth for the foreseeable future,” she murmured. “Dickens… There’s a copy of ‘Two Gentlemen of Verona.’”

“That’ll do.”

Phryne took the book and curled up on the footstool beside Jack’s chair, and opened the little paperback. “Act Two, Scene Seven. Verona. Julia’s house. Enter Julia and Lucetta.”

Jack nodded. “I know the scene.”

“‘Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me; and even in kind love I do conjure thee, who art the table wherein all my thoughts are visibly character'd and engraved, to lesson me and tell me some good mean how, with my honour, I may undertake a journey to my loving Proteus.

“‘Alas,’ says Lucetta (said Phryne), “‘the way is wearisome and long!’”

Jack sighed. 

“‘A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary to measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; much less shall she that hath Love's wings to fly, and when the flight is made to one so dear, of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. 

“‘Better forbear till Proteus make return.

“‘O, know'st thou not his looks are my soul's food?’ ...Jack, perhaps I should pick a different passage.”

“No, no... keep going.”

Phryne caught her lower lip briefly between her teeth. “All right. ‘Pity the dearth that I have pined in, by longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love, thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow as seek to quench the fire of love with words.

“‘I—’”

“‘I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire,’” Jack murmured hoarsely, ‘“but qualify the fire's extreme rage, lest it should burn above the bounds of reason.’”

“‘The more thou damm'st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, thou know'st, being stopp'd, impatiently doth rage; but when his fair course is not hindered, he makes sweet music with the enamell'ed stones, giving a gentle kiss to every sedge he overtaketh in his pilgrimage, and so by many winding nooks he strays with willing sport to the wild ocean.’”

Phryne was now quite sure that the heat in her cheeks was not, in fact, from the fire in the grate. “‘Then let me go and hinder not my course. I'll be as patient as a gentle stream and make a pastime of each weary step, till the last step have brought me to my love; and there I'll rest, as after much turmoil a blessed soul doth in Elysium.’”

She closed the book thoughtfully.

“You’re sure you chose that scene at random, Miss Fisher? Or did you have an ulterior motive?”

“I don’t make advances towards sick men, Inspector.” Phryne stood up, leaving the book on the footstool. She swept back his hair to check his temperature. The fire was making it difficult to tell if his fever had broken. Certainly his eyes were still as bright as they had been… She leaned forward and pressed her lips lightly to his forehead. “My mother used to do that,” she said, feeling the need to offer an explanation. “Just to be sure.”

Jack smiled slightly. “So did mine.” Then to her dismay, he stood up. “I should go back to my room. Sleep is what I need now.”

Phryne caught the edge of the quilt and held on. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?” She looked up at him with eyes that she knew were too wistful to fool even the most feverish man. “You’re welcome to share my bed.”

Jack blinked and gave her the little sideways look that said, ‘You are being naughty, Miss Fisher.’

“I am referring entirely to the sharing in the spirit of camaraderie and friendship. Besides, being sick is bad enough. Why be miserable _and_ alone?”

“Because if I stay, I am going to be a very uncomfortable presence when this fever breaks.”

...Damn the man, he did have a point. “All right, but promise me you’ll go straight to bed.”

“On one condition.” He tipped his head to one side. “You read very well, Miss Fisher. After we’re back in Melbourne, and I’m feeling a bit better... perhaps we could read another of the Bard’s plays together. Perhaps even... act out a few of the off-stage scenes.”

Phryne was suddenly and vividly awake. Her lips widened into a slow smile. “I’ll look forward to it. And I hope you’ll feel better by morning.”

He nodded. “I will. I do. Good night, Miss Fisher.”

“Good night, Jack.”


	5. Naked Potentialities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phryne and Jack talk about old friends and old wounds. (Takes place after "Murder and the Maiden".)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the penultimate angsty chapter; the final one will be delightful, I promise. References to traumatic war injuries, as well as barely-there insinuations referring to past sexual assault.

Phryne wrapped up the Virginia Forbes case the same way she did most of her cases: sitting in her parlour with Jack, sipping drinks and needling him over his successes and perceived failures and being jibed right back. “Thank you,” Phryne said, tucking her knees against her chest as she sat folded comfortably in a chair, “for cooperating with Captain Compton, at the end. I know… I didn’t make it easy for you.”

“That, Miss Fisher, is a deliberate understatement.” Jack, who was leaning on her mantelpiece, glared down at her with his customary expression of mingled frustration and fondness. There was amusement in there as well, Phryne knew, though he seemed to be trying to subdue that. “But he didn’t make things very easy for you, either. He lied to you from beginning to end.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” she groaned. She knocked back the rest of her drink and grimaced. “Bastard. Asks me for a favour and then stands on his responsibilities and won’t unbend enough to let either of us do our jobs. He never used to be that stuffy.”

“Stuffy men don’t agree to assignations in airplane hangers.” The comment apparently slipped out unintentionally, if Jack’s muttered curse was anything to judge by. 

Phryne’s single raised eyebrow was more than enough to make her enjoyment of his discomfort well-known. _If you can do better, Jack Robinson, you’d better come right out and say it. Because I am **dying** for you to make the attempt._

“May I…” Jack fidgeted with his whiskey tumbler, his long fingers twitching the glass with a nervousness that was unusual to see, in a man normally so self-controlled. “May I ask you a… personal question, Miss Fisher?”

His tone sobered her mood at once. “Of course, Jack.”

“Some nights ago, when you asked me to dinner and I ended up rather… indisposed. You… said you undressed me.”

“Yes.”

“So presumably you saw…” He gestured with painful dignity in the general area of his left hip and thigh, where his trousers hid a wide snarled mass of tissue that Phryne had instantly recognized as the remnants of a shell wound, low on his hip, crossing his pelvis and cutting a bare swath through his pubic hair, the base of the scar barely half an inch from Jack’s pubic bone.

“I did,” Phryne said gently, “yes.”

The clock sounded very loud in the silence that followed. Jack looked down at his drink, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Is that why you decided to have a go with Compton?” he asked finally.

Pity and irritation both made themselves perfectly plain on Phryne’s face, and she shot to her feet as a sudden irrational resentment flared up in her chest. “Jack, as practically the only man in my life who refuses to go to bed with me, you can hardly continue to hold an encounter with an old friend against me. And further, I spent two years as a combat nurse and ambulance driver. I have seen far worse injuries than a clouted pelvis, so if you think that's likely to put me off…” A horrible thought crossed her mind, bringing her up short. “Oh Jack. Did Rosie… have difficulty coping, when you came back?” He said nothing, and what she could see of his expression was unreadable. “Could the two of you not…?”

“There were some intimacy problems, at first,” Jack said, gruffly, and as quickly as possible, “but we moved past them. I was lucky. Everything functions. Mostly functions. You’ll have noticed,” he added, rather pointedly, “that everything of importance is undamaged.”

She had noticed, yes. “Then what…?”

“You’re not the only woman who’s shown an interest in me, since Rosie and I separated. More than once, I have been sorely tempted.” He didn’t say who by, and Phryne thought it better not to ask. “But the thought of another woman seeing… and needing to explain… it’s not easy to _look_ at, Phryne. Let alone to… touch.” 

She opened her mouth to speak, perfectly ready to tell him that it wasn’t that bad, that _she_ certainly wasn’t put off by the sight, in fact she was rather impressed to know he’d been wounded so badly and was now recovered enough to be both an active police officer and an amateur athlete… but then, she was a veteran of the same war. She had seen far worse injuries. But his former wife had been safe and sheltered back at home, and it wasn’t the sort of wound a young man could write home about with any sort of ease. “It looked quite severe,” she said instead, determined to keep her voice calm and even. “Was there a great deal of damage?”

“The doctors at the hospital weren’t sure if I would ever be able to walk again, let alone…” He trailed off, again gesturing to the vague area of the relevant anatomy. “Turned out I was, after… well, after some months of trying. It was the muscles, mainly, not the bone. The muscles and blood vessels. So walking came back faster than the rest. Fast enough for them to send me back to the Front,” he added, bitterly. “But as for the rest, after I got back… it was hell, Phryne. For me and for Rosie. I never want to experience that again, or inflict it on anyone else.” 

Phryne drew in a slight breath. “You were afraid,” she murmured, moving to close a little of the distance between them. 

Jack’s shoulders twitched in an involuntary shrug. “The one good thing I can say about my tenure as a husband is that neither of us ever felt physically neglected. It was my one consolation, that Rosie didn’t leave me because her marital needs weren’t being met. So yes, I… I was afraid. Because I can’t simply ‘go to bed’ with a woman, Phryne. Physical intimacy isn’t enough for me.” He looked up at last, and the intensity of his love – she had known for months, ever since the murder at the Adventurers’ Club – seemed to pierce her, willing her to understand what he was leaving unsaid. “And I have been haunted by the fear that if I were to become intimate, truly and completely intimate, with… another woman,” he said, carefully, “I would lose my nerve and disappoint her. And I couldn’t bear the thought of that.”

“And my ‘reminiscing’ with Captain Compton after seeing your scars merely confirmed that fear.”

Jack favored her with a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Irrational, I know, but… it doesn’t seem that either of us acted with complete rationality, during this case.” 

As much as she would have liked to refute him… she couldn’t. 

 

_“So Captain Courageous is entrusting Mata Hari with another secret mission.”_

_“Compton was a long time ago, Jack, and it wasn’t like that. Well, yes, it was, but… You know what it’s like when you think life is fleeting and you might die at any moment…”_

_“What about a love triangle?”_

_“I can’t imagine that.”_

_“Well, it’s not that difficult – one woman, two men. It has been known to lead to conflict…”_

_“A woman is dead and he’s asking you to withhold information from me. If he won’t cooperate with the police, I’ll go over his head.”_

_“You seem determined to make this a personal matter.”_

_“And you seem determined to make it a military one. I don’t understand why you have to dance to his tune.”_

_“I dance to no-one’s tune, Jack.”_

 

The truth was, it had been Phryne herself who had been determined to make the case a personal matter. She wanted Jack and he wouldn’t meet her halfway, and she was annoyed by that, to say nothing of feeling rather neglected in the area of physical pleasure. Her pursuit of Jack Robinson had left her little time for more casual dalliances, and she was restless. And then Compton had appeared, as an old friend willing not only to indulge her needs but also to lend a somewhat sympathetic ear to her current woes. 

 

_“He's not your usual… style.”_

_“I don’t have a usual style. I think I’m admirably versatile.”_

_“Ah, so I am right about Jack.”_

_“Too much ballast for lift-off.”_

_“Yours or his?”_

_“Probably both.”_

 

Well, she certainly hadn’t been wrong about that… 

Phryne bit thoughtfully at her lower lip. “I am going to tell you something, Jack, that I’ve never told anyone before. Not even Dr. Mac, and apart from you, there is no one who knows me as well.”

His eyebrows drew together in an expression of deep concern. “Go ahead.”

“After Paris – after Rene – there was a period where I swore off men entirely. Not just the notion of being so foolish as to fall in love again, but the whole idea of sex.” She made herself roll her eyes and chuckle. “I know, it’s hard to believe.”

“No,” said Jack, very softly. “It’s not.”

There was something in his look, in his tone, in the very tension of his body that seemed to want to reach out and take her in his arms, that spoke volumes. Phryne forced down the sudden lump in her throat. “It… took me a long time after that to want to trust my body to any man, let alone to actually do it. I had to learn to defend myself, to become the woman I wanted to be, not the woman that men wanted.”

“And Captain Compton… what? Helped you?”

Phryne snorted. “No one helped me, Jack. I had to do all of that by myself. But after crash-landing in a mountainous jungle and nearly dying, I realized I didn’t need to be afraid of anything anymore. I was alive, and exhilarated, and I needed to—well.” She shrugged and resumed her drink. “Lyle Compton was simply the nearest man to hand.”

“Interesting turn of phrase,” said Jack dryly. “But in spite of the plane crash, at least you experienced that moment of release from fear. I haven’t felt that, yet. And unfortunately…” He hesitated. “Unfortunately, I seem to have lost my chance for that potential moment.”

And, he did not say, Phryne was the one who had taken it. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t known about his scars beforehand, or about his fears. He might have forgiven her for the liberty, but the damage was done. “Would you feel better if I gave you the same chance?” she offered, her voice low and smooth and warm as the whiskey in their glasses. “To chastely undress me, and see my scars?” 

Jack’s lips formed themselves into a grin that was a little too broad for sincerity. “You haven’t got a blemish on your body to speak of, if that performance at the Imperial Club was anything to go by.”

“Greasepaint is a _marvelous_ invention,” Phryne drawled devilishly. But her heart wasn’t in the teasing. “I’ve nothing as noticeable as yours,” she continued, gentling her tone. “But they are there, and they all have stories.” She watched Jack’s smile fade. “I’d be more than willing to share them with you, as payment for my having seen you when you were… not at your best.”

She inched her hand along the mantel to where his rested, and traced the tense raised lines of his tendons with a delicate forefinger. Jack allowed the caress for a moment, perhaps even a moment too long, before he drew his hand away and finished his drink rather hurriedly. “No,” he said, too quickly. “No, I… think not, Miss Fisher. I… would much rather such a display take place because we both want it, not because you feel you owe me tit for tat. And I think we both know…” He moistened his lips. “That if we were to indulge in such a display tonight… it would not remain chaste.”

“And would that be such a terrible thing?”

His eyes were so deeply blue, Phryne thought she might drown in them. He gazed at her for a long, long time, and then, almost against his will, shook his head. “Not tonight,” he said, huskily. 

“But not… never?”

“No. Just not tonight.” A flicker of something warm and shy and sweet passed over his face. “You’ve already unclothed me tonight far more than I intended to let you.”

Phryne saw him to the door, helped him into his coat for the simple pleasure of keeping her hands on him for as long as possible. She understood how he was struggling with his feelings, perhaps even more than he did, and she understood the perils of playing the long game with a man. It required patience, and she was finding that she possessed surprising reserves of that, particularly since the prize seemed to be so worth winning. 

Jack paused with his hat in his hand, his head tipped to one side. He seemed to be listening, or waiting for something. Then he smiled slightly, took a step forward and kissed her cheek. “Good night, Miss Fisher.”

Warmth bloomed in her chest and pooled low in her belly. “Good night, Jack,” she smiled, her hand lingering on his arm. “And Jack?” He paused. “When you’ve reclothed yourself sufficiently, perhaps you’ll again consider taking supper with me? I promise to turn away any unexpected guests this time.”

His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes suddenly seemed to catch fire. “I’ll hold you to that.”


	6. Whole Joyes (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their tennis match, Phryne and Jack go skinny-dipping in Aunt Prudence's pool... at Jack's suggestion. But first, they need to get undressed...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter got unexpectedly long and involved. Long enough for me to need to split it in half. At least I HOPE it's only being split in half. o_O
> 
> Please also note that the rating has gone up. For _reasons_. Lastly, warning for one blink-and-you'll-miss-it reference to past sexual abuse.

Jack served the ball with his secret weapon, a whacking good clout that had all the considerable muscles of his arm and chest behind it. He laughed as Phryne scrambled to reach the ball before it rocketed out of bounds, and failed. “I aced you, Miss Fisher,” he called across the court.

“You just caught me off-guard,” she called back, not at all upset by her loss. She smiled brightly at him as she floated off the court. “You're actually quite good, you know.” 

“Thank you,” said Jack, surprised at how pleased he was to know that he had impressed her. _Well, it’s not easy to do…_ “I learned at the police academy. Speaking of which,” he continued, heading towards the bench with the loose-limbed easy walk of an athlete, “there's a certain lack of attention to detail in your arrest paperwork, so I'm retiring you as my special constable.” 

“I see.” She sounded more amused than disappointed. 

It was a lie, of course; having her on record as his special constable would make future police work with her far easier, especially since the new chief commissioner was a bit more of a stickler for procedure than Commissioner Hall had been. But it wouldn’t do to tell Phryne any of that, not yet. 

_She’s hard enough for me to keep up with as it is._

Phryne caught up something small and shiny from her equipment bag. “I suppose you'll be wanting your badge back.” 

She held out the treasured piece of childhood that he had so carefully pinned to her dressing gown only a day or two before. 

For the life of him, Jack couldn’t remember where he’d gotten the little thing, but he did remember wearing it non-stop outside of school for almost two years, and the day he’d had to stop wearing it: when he bought his first bicycle, and realized that the little pin was no match for the speed and the wind. What sort of Texas Ranger, even one whose horse had wheels instead of legs, rode without a badge? But it was either stop wearing it, or lose it, and little Jacky couldn’t bear the thought of that. So he’d laid it away in his treasure box, and there it had remained, through deaths and war and marriage, to end up resting against the black satin of Phryne Fisher’s dressing gown. It had looked rather good there.

“Well...” Jack pretended to consider. “No. No, I think you've earned the badge.” 

He took it from her and fastened it to the thin white cloth of her sleeveless dress, which he knew had been her intention all along. She looked up at him with large, soft eyes, the same way she had when he had pinned the badge on her the morning he’d made her his special constable. It was a trusting expression, and if his imagination wasn’t playing tricks on him, an adoring one, and it made Jack’s heart ache to see it. If she would look at him that way always, he would never ask for anything else… 

Phryne smiled at him, well pleased at how her little ploy had worked out. “Game, set, and... murder solved.”

He leveled a fond look at her, and then, unable to contain himself, he smiled back. And the way Phryne’s pupils dilated and her breathing quickened _certainly_ weren’t his imagination.

“Another match, Jack?” 

“I’ve got a better idea.” Jack turned and gestured with his racket, indicating the crystal blue pool across the lawns and beyond the trees. “How about a swim, Miss Fisher?”

She stroked the little tin badge thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring a bathing suit,” Phryne said, pulling her lips into a tempting little pout and looking a challenge up at him from behind her eyelashes.

“That’s all right,” said Jack, shrugging. “Neither did I.” 

“Jack. Are you actually suggesting that we go _skinny-dipping_? In my aunt’s swimming pool? You know she’d be scandalized!” Phryne sounded positively delighted.

“I am well aware of that, Miss Fisher. I also know that your aunt isn’t here right now, and that all her servants are on holiday.” He picked up his bag and shouldered his racket. “Besides, we’re sensible adults. No harm in a swim on a balmy spring day, is there?”

“No harm at all,” Phryne agreed blithely, scooping up her things and striding off with him in the direction of the pool house. “Especially not after such a vigorous game of tennis. I’m sure we’re both rather hot and sticky.” She raised an eyebrow at her escort. “Particularly you, in all those layers.”

“Whereas you, Miss Fisher, are wearing practically nothing.”

She laughed, low in her throat. “‘Nothing,’ Jack? Wait until we’re in the pool.” 

The little building that opened out onto the pool’s beautifully sculpted and landscaped surround was, in fact, intended for changing into and out of bathing suits, and was well-stocked with big fluffy towels, big fluffy robes, suntan oils and salves for sun burns, and a wet bar. It also possessed a shower, for the better removal of chlorine from one’s hair, which Phryne knowledgeably informed Jack was always so trying to a lady’s hair.

“I used to love coming here as a child,” she told him, as they ducked into the cool exterior. The louvered blinds that covered the windows let in plenty of the late afternoon sunlight, but shielded them from all prying eyes outside. “Mother would never let Aunt Prudence give her money or buy clothes for Janey and me – she knew Father would just spend the money and pawn the clothes – but she was happy to let Prudence whisk us away for a few weeks in the summer. Uncle Edward added the pool to the original house, for himself and Guy and Arthur.”

“Not for Mrs. Stanley?”

“She was coaxed into using it, eventually. After Uncle Edward threw her in.”

Jack added ‘impressive upper body strength’ to the little he knew of the late Edward Stanley.

“Is your aunt afraid of the water?” Jack asked, finding a shelf upon which to stash his racket and his gym bag. “I remember when we were at the beach last year, she wouldn’t go anywhere near the ocean. Or is it just the mixed bathing that affronts her?”

“Probably the latter.” Phryne tossed things aside, dropped her hat on top of them, scrubbed her hands invigoratingly through her short black hair, and then sat down on a padded bench to remove her shoes. Then she looked up at Jack with a thoughtful gleam in her eye. “I believe I owe you an unclothing, Inspector.”

_“Would you feel better if I gave you the same chance? To chastely undress me, and see my scars? I’d be more than willing to share them with you, as payment for my having seen you when you were… not at your best.”_

Jack met her gaze steadily, without blinking, and then slowly sank into a crouch in front of her. “Do you know, Miss Fisher… I believe you’re right.”

She extended a small foot, and waited. 

Calmly, with the same bland expression he had assumed when untying Angela Lombard’s dress, Jack unbuckled the low-heeled patent leather shoe and, supporting the back of her ankle in his hand, carefully removed it from Phryne’s foot. He let his fingers curl around to tickle gently at her ankle bone briefly before relinquishing her and repeating the process on the other foot. He set the shoes to one side and pondered how next to proceed. 

Phryne smiled brightly at him. “Stockings, Jack,” she prompted, waving her feet at him. 

A bubble of laughter broke from somewhere in Jack’s chest. There were times when she made him feel like a hidebound old man, true, particularly where fashion and driving and other men were concerned, but then she would turn around and make him feel like a boy again, or a young lad out courting his best girl. _Been years since I felt like this,_ he thought, watching Phryne twitch her short skirt at him playfully. Stockings meant garters, and garters meant touching her thighs, and thighs meant— _Oh hell._

“I am chastely undressing you, Miss Fisher,” he said sternly, not especially wanting to remain chaste, but at the same time determined to hold his own in her presence. “Remember, those were your words.”

“I remember very clearly. I also remember...” She let out a low, short breath as his hands slipped delicately beneath her skirt to clasp round her left thigh. “I also remember, quite distinctly, that you said such a display would not remain chaste for long.”

Jack slid her garter down over her knee and calf and off of her foot, quite neatly. “I’m in a far better state of mind now.”

There was a slight but noticeable flush on Phryne’s cheeks. “You did that awfully well. Been keeping in practice?”

He shot her the most deliberately smug grin he could muster and danced his fingers up her other leg. 

Practice. That was a joke, though with the way he’d been acting since that last night at Strano’s, no one would know it. Even Collins at the station had commented that his boss had a bit more spring in his step lately, and Phryne’s pet red raggers had been looking at him like protective older brothers. He half-expected Miss Williams to corner him at a crime scene and demand to know what his intentions towards her employer were. 

There was no one else. There had been no one else since Rosie had left, one cold morning in June, six years before, when she had realized long before he did that the spouses they were pretending to love were little more than shadows. He hadn’t lied to Phryne when he’d admitted, some weeks prior, that he’d been tempted by other women since then. She knew now why he had never been able to give into that temptation, even for a night. 

But not for nothing was Jack Robinson a frustrated amateur actor. He could put on a mask and play the game as well as the Honourable Miss Fisher could, especially when it was so damned plain that she enjoying having a playing partner, for a change. 

He pulled off the translucent, decadent silk stocking slowly from her right leg, revealing a long smooth path of pale skin, a delicate ankle, and well-manicured toenails on her small toes. Her feet and even her legs were no mystery to Jack; she’d bared nearly all in his presence on more than one occasion, all of them with surprisingly innocent outcomes, given her designs upon him. 

_I wonder… are you ticklish, Miss Fisher?_ His devious thoughts must have been written all over his face, because Phryne suddenly scowled at him. 

“Don’t you dare, Jack. Unless you want to get kicked in the face.”

He gave her a look of affronted innocence and went back to work, removing her remaining stocking even more slowly than the first, just barely dragging his fingers over her skin and leaving goose bumps in his wake.

“What happened here?” he asked, feeling the distinctive sensation of scar tissue. He lifted Phryne’s leg a little higher, to better see the marks on her calf. 

“Nothing spectacular. A dog bite, when I was nine.”

Jack caressed her leg softly with his palm. “Strange. I’ve never seen a dog that left bullet wound-shaped scars.”

“What?” Phryne shook his hand off and crossed her leg over her opposite knee to examine the faint marks; the movement gave Jack a sudden and unexpected view of her white silk lingerie, knocking a surprised cough out of him.

She didn’t seem to notice. “Oh! That! Yes, I remember now. That happened in Belgium somewhere while I was driving my ambulance. Went straight through the door and through my leg and out the other side. I was so determined to get those men to safety, I didn’t even realize I’d been shot until we got to the hospital and I tried to get out of the van, and fell flat on my face. Healed up quick, hasn’t given me a problem since.”

“Why’d you say it was a dog bite?”

“Because I was actually bitten by my cousin Guy’s horrid little toy poodle when I was nine years old, in that exact spot.” Phryne dropped her leg, laughing. “The scar’s long since faded, but you can tell which event left the bigger impression on me.”

“Only you could manage to forget getting shot,” said Jack, not even bothering to disguise his dry pride. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, and did not fail to notice Phryne watching his easy movements with great appreciation. “Up, Miss Fisher,” he said, offering his hand. “Unless you’d like to finish without me?” he added, wanting to give her an out that had not been available to him, when she had undressed him and put him to bed.

Phryne met his eyes squarely. “Dress next, I think, Jack.”

He examined the thin white fabric of her frock, which was not strictly the sort of thing one usually found ladies playing tennis in. He suspected it was the most appropriate garment Phryne had on hand for the sport; certainly she’d been surprised to see him turn up at her aunt’s house in proper tennis whites. “Maybe you should take this off. I’d hate to tear it.”

“I offered you an unclothing, not a striptease.”

Jack cleared his throat. _I will not blush, I will not blush, I am on the far side of thirty-five and I will not blush…_ “Just… up and off?”

For an answer, Phryne simply put her arms up. 

Jack lowered his hands to her slender waist and gathered up the delicate fabric, crushing it softly. He kept his face schooled into a mask of utter calmness, but he pointedly did not look at Phryne’s eyes as he lifted the dress over her breasts and shoulders and finally over her head, taking care not to get the badge stuck in her hair. Looking Phryne in the eyes was always a rather… fraught proposition, and he was already needing to veer clear of memories of his wedding night.

She caught the dress as he brought it past her hands, and let it drop to the floor. “Very nicely done, Jack,” she said, her voice low and breathy. Her arms descended, gracefully, to twine round his neck, and her face tilted up to his as though waiting for a kiss.

He wanted to. Badly. Every nerve ending in his body felt as though it was on fire, with Phryne Fisher standing in front of him in nothing but her underwear, her arms around his neck and her body just bare inches from pressing against his… “Chastely, Miss Fisher,” he reminded her again, rather huskily. 

“Why?” she murmured. 

“Because… I trust you.” She frowned at this. Jack smiled and cupped his hands round her bare shoulders. Phryne normally powdered her arms when she wore sleeveless gowns and blouses, but perspiration from the tennis match had wiped most of it away, and the unfashionable little freckles on her shoulders tugged sweetly at Jack’s heart. “I was angry when I realized that you’d seen me, seen all of me, but never for one moment did I think you took advantage of me. Even after you assured me that the scars didn’t matter. I’d like to return that trust.”

He watched Phryne’s lips press together slightly, but couldn’t tell if she was suppressing a smile or a sob. “In that case, Jack… go ahead.”

As he drew back, his fingertips lingered on a pale white line that sliced neatly down the outside of her right bicep. It was so thin that it would have been difficult to see, except up close and in the right light. To Jack’s informed eye, it looked rather like the mark of a very sharp, very thin-bladed knife. “How’d you come by this one?”

“An attempted mugging, in London, a few years ago.”

“Only attempted?”

“I got off with that scratch and a ruined sleeve. The robber ended up with a broken hand and a prison sentence.”

“Enough of a scratch to leave a scar. Does it bother you very much?”

“Not really. Of course, after a strenuous tennis game, it does tend to ache a bit…” Her green eyes smoldered at him. “Perhaps you’d like to kiss it and make it better?”

It was the kind of cheeky remark Jack would have made himself ignore, only a few months ago. Instead, he let the heat curling in his gut have a little free rein. With a slight smile, he bent and touched his lips to her arm. Phryne let out a soft sigh, and his smile widened. “How’s that?” he murmured against her skin.

“Oh… much better, thank you.” 

He felt her opposite hand land lightly between his shoulder blades. Her fingers stroked lightly at the cropped hairs at the nape of his neck, sending shivers darting through his blood. Before she could undo him entirely, Jack straightened up abruptly. 

Phryne gave him a little moue of dismay at the loss of his lips, and then raised her eyebrow expectantly. “Slip?”

The slip came off as easily as the dress, confronting Jack with the sight of Phryne in nothing but silken brassiere and underwear. She stood with her hands on her hips and her chin raised high. Jack grinned with half his mouth, and unguarded admiration in his eyes. “You don’t need to vamp for me, Miss Fisher. I’m immune to your tricks.”

“Is that so?” She slipped her thumbs under the straps of her brassiere and turned round with little mincing steps. “In that case, Jack, perhaps I should do the rest of this myself…”

He grasped her upper arms gently to still her. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he breathed, and trailed his hands lightly up the smooth clean curve of her spine to the clasp of her brassiere. Thankfully, there was enough light to see by, so the damned thing gave him no trouble. He slid the straps down Phryne’s arms and let it fall to the floor, then knelt behind her and hooked his fingers into the elastic of her knickers. 

“Phryne?”

“Yes, Jack.”

Unseen behind her, Jack licked his suddenly dry lips and tried to subdue his heart, which was beating a strange and intense tattoo inside his ribs. His teasing attentions had clearly not only been welcome but also very effective, as he had realized upon sinking to his knees and putting himself level with Phryne’s most intimate parts. _God, the smell of her…_ It struck him like a punch that it was not an unfamiliar scent; apparently her expensive perfume could only cover so much… He slowly pulled the white silk down over her rump. Phryne had to spread her thighs slightly to let the garment down, and the scent of her desire intensified. “All right, Miss Fisher?” he asked, doing his damnedest to keep his voice level.

“Never better.” She sounded utterly calm and in control, almost queenly. “You?”

“Oh, I’m on top of the world, thanks.” 

Phryne stepped daintily out of her damp underwear and would have turned, but Jack’s hand on her hip arrested her movements. “That can’t have been fun,” he said, grateful to have found something to distract his thoughts. “Looks like a knife wound as well.” 

Phryne squirmed a bit at the touch of his hand on her bottom, to Jack’s satisfaction. “It is.”

“Is there a story behind it?” He cupped her buttock in his palm and ran his thumb lightly over the short thick line. “It looks like it was quite deep.”

“It was.”

“Your clipped answers are very interesting, Miss Fisher.”

“Jack. With your hands on my derriere, I think you can safely call me ‘Phryne.’ You’ve had my permission for a very long time.”

“I have,” he agreed. “And I only have one hand on your derriere. The other is on your hip, because you won’t stop squirming. Story?”

She let out a huff. “It’s ridiculous.”

“Ah. So the obvious apprehension you’re feeling right now has nothing to do with me having my hand in a rather intimate place on your person, and everything to do with you not wanting to tell me something embarrassing.” Jack grinned. “If I kiss it, will you tell me?”

“…That depends on the kiss.”

Jack couldn’t help the low growl that rumbled up from his chest, as he pressed his lips to the soft, smooth skin of Phryne’s rump. He dug his fingers into her hip to hold her in place and laved his tongue across the little scar, and suckled softly. 

“Oh, _God_ , Jack…” she whispered, pressing back against his mouth.

Her cry went straight to his groin, sending a fresh wave of blood to his already aching cock, and it was all he could do not to push her down over the padded bench and take her, right there, the way they both wanted him to. With a monumental effort, he pulled back, stroking her lightly with his thumb to dry her skin. “Well?” he asked, after they’d composed themselves.

“I was fourteen, and I was… horsing around, with some friends.”

“Dangerous age, fourteen.”

“Someone had left an open jackknife on a table. I got pushed and fell straight back into it.”

Jack winced, and his teasing caresses became gentle. “Sorry.”

“Oh, that wasn’t the embarrassing part,” said Phryne ruefully. “When Mac had helped me limp home to my mother, she was naturally under the impression that I’d actually been attacked by someone, and demanded to know who it was. When I wouldn’t tell her, she put me over her knee and said she’d sew up the cut herself, then and there, unless I told her what happened. I could take a whipping from my father without flinching, but the thought of being stitched up without anesthetic terrified me.”

“It’s a much slower pain to endure,” Jack agreed, remembering crude battlefield hospitals and shortages of ether and chloroform. “So you told her the truth?”

“I did. Bare-arsed and bleeding everywhere, I didn’t have much of a choice. The doctor laughed at me as he was stitching it up, and my father was none too thrilled about the ten shilling fee, but at least I got my morphine. And Mac got to watch her first surgery.”

“So technically, you can take the credit for Dr. MacMillan’s interest in medicine.”

“Oh yes, her parents were _very_ thrilled about that… And then,” Phryne continued, her tone brightening considerably, “after I healed up, I went out and beat up the boy who owned the jackknife. And took his knife, for my troubles. Mother did eventually make me give it back to him, but he had to run my errands for a week, to earn its return.”

Jack chuckled at that, wondering who the boy might have been. Raymond Hirsch, perhaps? No, the film director was a weedy man who very likely had been a weedy boy, not worth pummeling. It might have been Stanley Burroughs, now an accessory to a murder… then again, probably not; Burroughs had grown up wealthy. No doubt there were many other male friends from Phryne Fisher’s days in Collingwood who’d managed _not_ to get mixed up in one of her murder investigations, unlike Dr. MacMillan. Amazing that he’d known both women for over a year and yet never realized they’d been children together… “Your mother sounds like quite the woman.”

“She’d have to be, to have put up with my father for all these years. And to put up with me.”

“I wouldn’t have dared assume your mother would be anything less than an amazing woman. After all, she was partially responsible for you.”

Phryne glanced back over her shoulder at him. “I hope that’s not an intimation that my father was in any way responsible for how amazing I turned out to be.”

 _You’re far more like your old man than you’ll ever admit,_ Jack said to himself. Aloud, and equally truthfully, he said, “I think the remainder of that responsibility rests squarely on your own lovely shoulders.” He stood up, a little less gracefully this time, just as Phryne turned around. 

Jack stopped breathing, just for a second or two. _Phryne, love… how can anyone be so beautiful?_ He still dared not meet her eyes, and dropped his gaze to her small breasts as a slightly safer option.

To his surprise, her hands fluttered up to cover herself. 

“What is it?”

“…Nothing.” Phryne looked down and pulled her hands away from her breasts. She seemed as surprised as he was that they should have been there in the first place. Jack caught one hand gently. 

“Tell me?”

She wouldn’t look at him. Another moment and he would have released her, but then she said, simply, “Rene.” Jack closed what little distance remained between them. She made no complaint. If anything, she seemed grateful for his closeness. “He… used to use cigarettes, sometimes. On my… on me. There’s nothing there to see anymore, everything’s healed, but…” Jack stepped back, and bent his head to touch his lips lightly, soothingly, to the skin of her breasts. 

Phryne twined her fingers in his hair. 

When he finally released her, he raised his head and saw Phryne’s eyes shining at him, as they had when he’d pinned the badge to her dress. Jack found there was an unexpected lump in his throat.

“Go test the water, Miss Fisher,” he said gruffly, not trusting his voice. “I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

She let out a little murmur of disappointment. “After all that, I don’t even get to watch you?”

“You’ve already seen me naked... how many times?”

“Never enough times, Jack.”

He steered her gently out of the bathhouse and onto the pool’s concrete surround, and then closed the door behind her. 

Alone at last, Jack drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, shaking. _Shower first,_ he told himself, stripping off clothes that had long since become too confining, _then swimming pool._


	7. Whole Joyes (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the handling he's given her, Phryne's not about to let Jack get off that lightly...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that only took a month to finish. I think that's a new record for me, at least where an unfinished WIP is concerned! Thank you everyone for taking the time to read and leave kudos and comments. You've all been wonderful. ♥

Grasping hold of the metal ladder, Phryne dipped one foot into the water. It felt deliciously cool on her over-stimulated skin. “I have been touched by a lot of men, Jack Robinson,” she murmured to herself, sinking down onto the edge of the swimming pool and letting her legs float freely in the water, “all of them pleasantly different in their own right… but never quite like that.”

Nearly every lover she’d ever taken, who had taken the time to learn her body beyond the immediate needs of the physical act, had asked about her various scars. Sometimes she told them, and demanded a history of their bodies in return; other times, she laughed off their questions, charming and awing them with her mysteries. The lovers who didn’t ask fell into two categories: the ones who didn’t care, and the ones who knew too much to need to ask. It depended on her mood, which sort of man she preferred. 

Phryne couldn’t recall ever volunteering any of that information, though. She always waited to be asked, before she decided if her companion for the night was worth telling… or could be trusted to know. 

But there had never been a question of trusting Jack. Her instincts told her that he wouldn’t have asked, not with words, but his eyes like blue agates would have clung to each mark, following her and wondering, too proper to ask and too honorable to assume she would welcome him asking. So she had told him. Her visible scars were nothing as traumatic as his.

The invisible ones, though… He had seen them, in the trembling of her hands as she bared herself to him in a way she had not dared to do before any man in many, many years. 

She stroked light fingers across her breasts, curious to see if she could still feel the imprint of his lips. Strange, that something so tender could still be so erotic, and so comforting… stranger, that she could be so moved by the evidence of a man’s love after so long. The last time a man had confessed that he loved her, Phryne had felt nothing but exhaustion, and pity. 

_“I care for you. But you know that I can never commit myself. To any man.”_

Jack had never told her that he loved her, in so many words. 

_“…When I thought it was you… in that wreckage… I found it unbearable.”_

_“…Sounds serious.”_

_“It is.”_

When Lin had finally gone, there had been relief. When Jack walked out of her house, Phryne had felt her world crumpling in on itself like a sheet of paper destined for the fire. And when he came back, kicking and screaming, back to his old place against her mantel with a glass of her good whiskey in his hand, it was as though the earth could begin turning again. 

_“So what kind of partners are we from hereon in, Jack? What's our safe distance? Two steps behind, two steps in front? Perhaps a do-si-do?”_

_“I think we're more of a waltz, Miss Fisher.”_

_“Not a tango? A good waltz is slow, and close.”_

_“I'll try to stay in step, all the same.”_

He’d kept his word. And proved himself to be damnably good at the waltz, in the bargain… 

What was taking him so long?

“You know, as pleasant as this is, Jack,” she called, just loud enough for her voice to carry through the light doors of the pool house, “sitting here, luxuriating in this warm, _sensual_ air on my naked skin, it would be much better if I wasn’t here all alone.” When that didn’t get a response, Phryne rolled her eyes and continued teasingly. “Oh, come on, Jack, I can’t sit here all day, and neither of us has anything to hide from the other, at this point…” She trailed off as the door to the pool house finally opened. 

He certainly wasn’t hiding anything that Phryne hadn’t seen before. But oh, she realized with a sudden sharp, sweet clenching in her middle, she had never really seen Jack like this before. 

As he exited the pool house, her eye was immediately drawn to the play of his muscles, all of them moving smooth and tense and graceful, in sync beneath skin that was always slightly tanned, even in the winter. She watched his body as he walked slowly towards her. His beautiful calves and thighs, his arms swinging loose and easy at his sides and tapering down to his big gentle hands and the lovely loose wrists that she rarely got to see, his broad shoulders, his chest with the dark splash of a birthmark above the right nipple, his tight waist, his narrow hips, his lean stomach with its dusting of dark hair trailing down to generously-molded, promising genitals that seemed strangely calm, given the circumstances. 

Phryne’s lips parted slightly to let her tongue dart across in appreciation. Jack was _astonishingly_ beautiful. In the late spring sunlight, the two of them alone with one another’s nakedness, the wide scar slashed across his pelvis seemed entirely natural, a part of him. She couldn’t imagine being disgusted by it. 

He stopped a foot or two in front of her, leaving her eye-level with his cock and balls. There was a glint of water on his pubic hair, she noted, deducing that he had been in the shower, and looked up at him with false demureness. “You were an awfully long time, Jack. Problem with your trousers?”

His mouth twitched. “No thanks to you, Miss Fisher.”

“Me? What a scurrilous accusation. What did I do? Besides behave precisely as chastely as you insisted.”

Jack gestured to the pool. “I thought you were going to test the water.”

“I did!” She splashed her smooth white legs energetically, for the sheer pleasure of hearing Jack laugh again. “It’s perfect!”

“Then why aren’t you in it?”

“I was waiting for you.” She grinned at him with all of her teeth and swept admiring eyes over his whole bare skin. “I thought we could jump in together.”

“We could,” he agreed, and then grinned back with the half-smile that heralded the most mischief Jack Robinson could muster, which Phryne was beginning to suspect was quite a lot. “Or I could toss you in.”

“...My, you really _are_ feeling bold today.” Phryne used the railing of the pool steps to push herself upright. He was half a head taller than she was even when they were both barefoot, but Jack’s physical presence had never felt threatening to her. Overwhelmingly appealing, absolutely, as at that very moment, but she could stand before him naked and unprotected and challenge him directly to his face, and feel no fear.

It was dangerously exhilarating.

“If I told you to try it, and see what happens,” she said, taking one step closer and drawing out her words, “would you?”

“No.”

“Not even if I dared you?”

“Not even if you dared me.” Jack leaned in. “I’ve seen your judo work. I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Phryne beamed at him and felt just the tiniest bit taller. “Together, then?”

They dove into the water almost in tandem – Phryne hung back for a split second for the pleasure of seeing him slice through the clear water, and then joined him. The cold shock felt glorious on skin that was still warm from their tennis game, but did nothing to cool the heat building steadily between her thighs. 

She emerged from the water just in time to see Jack stand up and shake his head briskly. He smoothed his hair back and turned round, looking for her. Phryne caught his eye and then ducked back underwater. She darted away, glanced over her shoulder to see a tan blur swimming swiftly towards her, and then darted away again, laughing to herself. _Finally, Jack Robinson, you’re chasing after me._ She poked her head up for a quick gulp of air and felt his big hands beginning to close around her ankles. 

“Oh no, not that easily, you don’t!”

With a vigorous kick against his chest, Phryne freed herself and splashed away, turning onto her back as she did so to give Jack a better view of her charms, all pale skin and dark hair.

He barked out a laugh and dove after her. This time, he came up from beneath her like a merman. She felt a brief sensation of his hair against the small of her back, and then his arms were around her and he was lifting her clear out of the water. 

“Jack!” she gasped, shocked and laughing. “Jack Robinson, you put me down!”

His hands tightened on her ribs and thigh and he grinned at her. “If you insist, Miss Fisher.”

“Jack—Jack, don’t you dare—!” Phryne held her breath and prepared to be thrown.

But instead, he simply lowered her until she was floating gently on her back. “You said you didn’t want to be tossed,” he reminded her. 

Phryne scowled prettily and stood up, planting her hands on her hips. “Are you always this solicitous of naked women, Inspector?”

“...I try to be?” 

His attempt to sound calm and professional failed miserably, especially when he tried to continue his thought, registered Phryne angling her pelvis at him invitingly, and let out a sound rather like a strangled groan. Phryne giggled, and he turned away with a jerk. 

“Jack, darling...” She took a few steps towards him, intending to take his ass in her hands and beginning the process of driving him the rest of the way towards the inevitable. 

‘Because I trust you,’ he had said. He had given her his nakedness with the understanding that he would not try to seduce him without his agreement... and Jack’s trust was one of the most precious things Phryne had ever been given. She would not to anything to jeopardize it, not even to sate her own desires. Besides, she recalled with an inward jolt, she was entirely unprepared for sex. As amusing as it would have been to have Jack in her aunt’s pristine swimming pool, her diaphragm was currently in the evidence locker at City South Police Station, and having acted as a spider trap, Phryne had no plans to ever put the thing inside her body again. Love-making with Jack would have to wait, not only until he was ready for it, but until after she had been fitted for a new ‘internal device.’

So instead of teasing, the hands that touched Jack were gentle and soothing. Sternly reminding herself to keep away from his erect manhood, Phryne pressed the length of her body to Jack’s back and buttocks. She smoothed one hand down his unblemished thigh, and gently explored the slick, taut skin of his scar with the other. “May I ask a question?”

“Yes...”

“Will you answer it?”

Jack exhaled sharply, as though he’d been holding his breath. “I’ll try.”

“What did you wife do, when she first saw this?”

She felt his muscles tense against her breasts. He closed his hand over hers, over the scar. “She... cried. I hadn’t told her, when I was in hospital, how I was wounded. I couldn’t bring myself to describe the injury to her. She was afraid to touch it, at first. She thought she would hurt me.”

“Does it hurt anymore?”

“Occasionally, in the winter.”

Phryne rested her cheek between Jack’s shoulder blades and closed her eyes. “Does it hurt now?”

Jack threaded his fingers through hers. “No,” he said, very huskily.

They swam in companionable silence for a little longer, until the sun dipped behind the house. “Unfortunately,” Phryne sighed, resting against the side of the pool, “I think we need to start collecting ourselves.”

“I’ll get some towels,” said Jack, hauling himself out and striding across the concrete.

Phryne smirked in admiration of his thighs and buttocks. Then, as he disappeared inside the pool house, her hungry smile faded into something softer. He was beautiful. 

_No wonder Rosie cried when he came home._

She shook herself and took one last swim round the pool, then climbed out and stood up as Jack came with the towels. “Back to trousers already?”

“I was cold,” said Jack mildly, and held up a towel for her. 

Phryne turned around, and waited. She heard Jack let out a low sigh. 

“‘Full nakedness,’” he murmured as he laid the towel across her wet shoulders, his breath deliciously warm against the delicate skin of her ear. “‘All joyes are due to thee, as souls unbodied, bodies uncloth'd must be, to taste whole joyes.’” 

Phryne let out a soundless little gasp. Shakespeare on his lips was sensual enough. Hearing him quote John Donne was positively pornographic. “Jack Robinson,” she said, with a slow and sultry smile, “now you’re just teasing me.” She turned, pulling the broad ends of the towel close across her breasts, which still left her belly and hips and thighs and everything in between completely exposed to his sight. 

His linen trousers clung to his damp body, and he hadn’t bothered putting on his belt, so they hung low on his hips, covering everything of importance but still leaving very little to the imagination, particularly as he had not bothered to re-don his underpants, so that the outline of his erect manhood was very clear under his tennis whites. His eyes, dark and wicked with promise, skimmed over her with such indecent appreciation and pride that Phryne might actually have blushed, if she wasn’t already so pleased. 

“Thank you,” Jack said, catching up another towel and beginning to dry his arms. “I hadn’t intended for our afternoon swim to become _quite_ so perilous... but I’m very glad you decided to join me.” 

“Did you expect me to turn down a challenge like that?”

He shook his head; strands of his wavy hair clung to his forehead. “Never,” he said, with a lopsided smile that revealed more than he realized. “I was a little concerned, though, that having seen me at my worst, you might not be interested in seeing me at my best.”

Phryne brushed her own hair out of her eyes and considered him thoughtfully. “And is this the best you can do, Jack?”

“I think I could do better,” he said, after a moment, his voice low and warm and hesitant. He flung the towel over his shoulder, kneading the end absently with one hand. “I... I’ve made a mess of such things, in the past, I know, but I’m sure I could do better... if you wanted me to.”

It was obvious, at least in broad outline, what he was offering, but he was offering in such vague terms that if she laughed it off as a joke, or turned him down gently, both their prides – both their hearts – would be spared. Phryne thought of the little badge pinned to her white cotton dress, and the feel of his hands on her body and the feel of his body beneath her hands, of his hands clasping hers as they danced together in a shabby ballroom, of the little blue swallow broach nested in her best jewel box, of Jack’s unvarnished trust. They had been offerings, all of them, given with no expectations save for the pleasure of seeing her smile, of making her heart ache with the sweetness of his gestures and her body long for his.

The process of understanding had been frightening. Of coming to a decision, arduous. Of speaking her mind... simple.

“You told me you wanted more than physical intimacy. That you needed it.” He nodded. “Well then. If you, Jack, were to make a-a romantic overture to me, at some point in the near future – say, after my father is safely on the boat back to England...” He stilled abruptly, and looked at her with the quiet burning desperation of a man too hopeful to breathe. Phryne smiled. “You might be surprised at the outcome.” Her expression altered subtly, becoming strained. “Do try to wait until after he’s gone, Jack. I won’t rest easy until he’s out of the country, and I’ll want to give any potential overture of yours my...” She swept her gaze over his barely-clothed body, “full and _complete_ attention.”

Jack nibbled on his lower lip. “And if I can’t manage to restrain myself for that long?”

“In that case,” Phryne sighed philosophically, modestly readjusting the towel to cover herself completely, while she adored and ravished Jack with her eyes, “we’ll just have to take whatever whole joyes come our way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next story in this series: a quiet Rosie-focused one-shot, with Phryne & Jack, dealing with the night her father and fiance were arrested.


End file.
